Separation Anxiety
by kkann
Summary: "Not funny man, where are you guys?" And then suddenly Ellis was on his own with nothing but his mind to keep him company. How long does it take for something in him to snap? Were they looking for him? A mind is such a terrible thing to waste...
1. This is where it all starts

****/Separation Anxiety/  
><strong>**

**A/N: **I wanted to take a break from polishing off _'an enemy bigger than my apathy_,' so I thought I'd wing this at you. Have at it. Seriously.  
>The summary is pretty self-explanatory—Ellis winds up on his own for a bit and it doesn't play out so well. (Idea was sort of inspired by the 'Ellis' page on the Wiki that mentioned a bird call he would make when separated by the group or when all of the other Survivors were dead.)<br>Thoughts? I'd like to know what Keith stories you guys would like to crop up in this story. Ellis is going to do a lot of talking, even if it is to himself.

I completely re-vamped this chapter from what it was originally, and by that I mean I pretty much re-wrote the entire thing. xD  
>As always, thoughts are appreciated.<p>

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><p><em>All <em>_men__'__s __misfortunes __spring __from __their __hatred __of __being __alone. __—_Jean de la Bruyere

**This is where it all starts.**

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><p>"Not funny, man, where are you guys?"<p>

His grip on his gun tightened, and Ellis spun in another tight circle in order to survey his surroundings. There was nothing out of the ordinary—the deserted street littered with vehicles and rubble like the aftermath of a child's tantrum was still as unsettling as ever, and the fact that no Infected had made their presence known save for the two or three that had recently run at him only to collapse with smoking holes in their heads was hardly comforting.

The young mechanic turned again slowly, letting his gaze flickering over each building in turn and reminding himself not to be too loud, least he attract unwanted attention.

"Okay, this seriously ain't funny no more."

He swallowed to keep the tremor of worry from his voice, the rifle in his hands shaking in a way that wasn't exactly uplifting.

If this was supposed to be some sick practical joke, it really wasn't that funny. It hadn't been to begin with.

_Everything hurt. His arms, his legs...everything burned with a dull ache._

Without thinking, he fired off another shot and left a former C.E.D.A. agent crumpling to the ground, air hissing out of their ill-fated suit, and leaving its bloodied maw slack and staring at Ellis in a pitiful and betrayed manner. There was an unreserved look of shock etched across his face, and Ellis hardly suppressed a shiver at the sight. Mowing down zombies and the Infected had become second nature to him over the past couple of days (or was it a week or two? He hadn't been keeping track since that first incident he still hadn't told the others about.), but there was still something exceedingly unnerving when it came to making eye contact with the undead.

He could almost hear them begging for mercy.

_Lord almighty._

Ellis shifted his gun in his hands again, letting the butt of it thump against the bottle attached to his belt, rattling the pills inside of it. It was with a grimace that he realized he was already running low on his supply on them, and the bottle Louis had chucked down to him after a good few minutes of obvious inner conflict had quickly been dispersed and utilized by he and his comrades. If he were to sustain some significant injury any time soon, he was more or less screwed over at the moment unless he grew a third arm and a PhD to go with it.

Years of mechanical work had taught him a great deal about fixing things, but the anatomy of a car was nothing compared to that of a human body. A vehicle could be scraped and put out of a mind; a life was a delicate thing and a one-shot deal.

Ellis had rapidly been realizing that he wasn't as indestructible as he'd once thought.

That didn't mean he wasn't above trying to impress his friends and give them something to laugh at and look forward to, however.

"Guys, c'mon. Seriously."

But what sort of 'friends' left him on his own to die?

_Ellis! Is now the best time?_

In that moment, he almost missed Nick's cynical nature, Coach's off-handed rants about cotton candy and other foods, and even Rochelle's almost endearing way of calling him 'sweetie' or 'honey.' He would admit to being the youngest of the group—that was a given—, but that didn't mean he was up for being babied or looked down upon by the others.

He would also admit to being immature and naive in his own right, but that had gotten him this far and it had thus worked out alright by him.

"What the _hell_, man?"

Ellis took a deep breath to steel his nerves and mindlessly slid a few more bullets into his gun, not wanting to be caught unawares while he was off hosting his own little pity party and not inviting anyone else to join in. He took a few steps forward and was suddenly again aware of the sting in his leg from where the Witch had slashed at him earlier that day after Nick had practically stepped on her. Leave it to his split-second heroism to shove Nick out of the way and end up with a limp and forced smile through the pain.

The pain had been lessened by the pills shoved down his throat and Rochelle's quick patchwork, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell.

Ignoring the bandaged gash that now served as a reminder that limping men might not move as fast as others and that if he was overwhelmed he was done for, Ellis continued on, hoping to find some shaded outcropping where he could hide in the shadows and wait for the others.

"Hellooo?"

With a grunt, he flopped on down to the ground under the overhang of a former eating establishment that had probably seen better days before this whole hell-on-earth scenario and wedged himself behind some dead potted plants. Slumping a bit and trying to come off as at least mostly dead, Ellis assumed and hoped that any wandering zombies would pass him by and leave none the wiser.

The rifle remained cocked and held steadily in his lap all the same.

He hardly resisted the urge to call out again, letting out a harsh whisper that demanded to know where the others were and what they found so funny about all of this.

_I don't have a problem with leaving the car _and_ you behind. Okay, Ellis?_

Sure they had jokingly told the others on the bridge awhile back that they'd leave Ellis behind and bring the others with them (In hindsight, Ellis didn't see the logic in it: One person did not equal the space three took up. Unless they were discussing the value of one over the other, in which case Ellis was a bit more than a little insulted.), but that's all it had been—a joke.

Right?

"Guys?"

_We ain't got time for this, Ellis._

They wouldn't willingly leave him behind, not after all this, would they? No, they wouldn't do that. It was partly _because_ of Ellis that they had gotten this far, that they had thought to use the Jimmy Gibbs Jr., that they had been able to navigate around the parts of Savannah that Coach didn't know. How could that possible warrant his _abandonment_?

The rifle momentarily trembled at the thought-out word: _abandonment_.

"Someone?"

Ellis had never liked being on his own as a child, and he was sure as hell not going to start now. Being alone was supposed to mean that no one cared, that no one wanted to be bothered by someone.

"Anyone?"

Surely the others cared enough to _look_ for him, if not even consider_ thinking_ about it.

"Caw, caw, caw, caw," He called out weakly at first, hoping it didn't attract too much attention from the stragglers around him. The bird call had been a worried joke of his to begin with, but once Nick had responded by poking his head out of the doorway that Ellis hadn't seen them run into, the call had stuck and been used (by him) ever since.

Not that he had been expecting one initially, but there was no response to his first round and it took a bit of mental convincing before he was able to raise his voice enough to be truly heard.

"Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw!" It was stronger this time, but there was still nothing for him to work with. There was little more than a squeaky grunt from around the corner, and Ellis slumped back again in order to keep from being seen.

By the time they found him, Nick was probably going to be red in the face and steaming with something along the lines of _What the _hell_ were you thinking, Overalls?_ and Rochelle would sigh in relief while Coach tried not to give him too condescending a look.

It had been Ellis, after all, that had managed to find them all a ride and hot-wire it that morning after the Witch incident. Coach had also almost shot Nick in the ass as well ("Shot me in the ass again, and your head will be even farther up yours." "Well don' put your ass where ah'm shootin'!") so that morning hadn't been a total loss. It had been much more amusing than most, to some regard.

They'd carried on in silence then, wary eyes roving around their surroundings for any straggling Infected or creatures prowling on rooftops. Never mind searching for any signs of other survivors. As harsh as it sounded, another liability wasn't something they were looking for and there was no way of knowing how stable someone who had been alone in hell for so long would respond to other living human beings.

That all aside, there was almost something comforting in the way they all wandered around clumped together and protected one another without truly thinking about it now.

When it came to taking the vehicle, though, Coach had taken his sweet time in conceding while Rochelle tried not to look too hopeful and Nick had been as sour as ever, calling it a piss-poor idea. The SUV Ellis had rigged had taken them a decent number of blocks and hadn't brought forth that much of a horde due to the low rumble of the engine after he'd been able to cut off the short-lived alarm. It had let out quite a screech, but it had been worth it when they were able to save their feet from a few blisters and temporarily travel much faster. Ellis had even been able to drive, so there was another bonus there.

He'd tried to withhold the grin that sprouted from being able to put his hot-wiring skills to the test. Years of working in an auto shop had taught him a 'thing or two' about the inner workings of various vehicles—some similar to the one they'd been looking at— but he'd never had any true need to really screw with them.

The car ride had been as fun and relaxing as it could have been in the middle of an apocalypse and Nick hadn't bashed Ellis' head in a crowbar just yet, so all-in-all it had been fairly enjoyable.

At least, it had been until there was a familiar bull-like snort and the driver's side door was a bit too close to Ellis for comfort. Nick had had hardly enough time to yank him back before his head cracked against the car horn.

In retrospect, being jostled around the front seat of the SUV hadn't hurt as much as the scathing look in Nick's eyes that might as well have screamed _I told you so_.

The look was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, its owner too caught up in firing into the mass that was throwing itself against their 'borrowed' transportation and trying to get to its closet victim, who just so happened to be the Southerner Coach was working to pull out of the seat.

There hadn't been much of a horde and Ellis had somehow managed to slam his door against the Charger, but that had done little to soothe the mental blow that brought bother guilt and another threat to his friends' lives. Leave it to Ellis to feel like a screw-up not for the first time in his life.

He'd started to prove his worth again when he killed a Jockey going for Rochelle and the Hunter that had been edging closer to Nick when another familiar roar had filled their ears, replacing adrenaline with dread and the sounds of gunfire with shouts of _Reloading!_

_Man up, we got a Tank!  
><em>

Coach had been firing a clip into the hulking mass of muscle and flesh when Ellis was greeted with an unobstructed view of the sky before he was slammed into the ground with the wind knocked out of him what felt like a couple dozen times.

Maybe Rochelle had called out to him. He couldn't remember.

_Holy shit it was so fast and he was running and running and he couldn't run any faster and his lungs were _burning_ oh God why couldn't he run faster shit this thing was going to kill him—_

That had been three hours ago.

Exhaustion, pained, low on ammo and lost, Ellis let himself collapse further into the wall of the former bar and grill behind him, letting the painkillers work their final course before they started fading. His feet ached from all that walking and running before and after the car incident, his ribs were presumably messed up from the door behind jammed into them, and his head and heart pounded out of the fear he'd been telling himself not to feel for a long time now.

He was afraid. For the first time in days, he was really, truly afraid.

Rubbing his side and breathing deeply, Ellis sat and waited.

To be saved or to be left on his own to die, he didn't know.

But he'd sure as hell have to find out.

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><p><strong>AN:** I did edit this first chapter: it's completely different from what I had up initially, so I hope you enjoyed this more if you so-happened to read what was up before-hand.  
>The other three will come make an appearance in the next chapter. ouo<br>And Ellis is more or less screwed over for the most of the story. Just letting you know.  
>uh, review?<p> 


	2. Day 0 2000 hours

****/Separation Anxiety/**  
><strong>

**A/N: **Hey guys! In case you happened to read it before it's upheaval, the first chapter got a complete remake. I went back and went to edit the first chapter, only to end up completely re-writing it in the process. If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you maybe did go back and read it. I had much more fun writing it than its previous version, and personally, I like it quite a bit better.

As for this chapter, I hope you enjoy as well and I'll admit that it might be a bit more for filler/establishment of where they all are than anything.

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><p><em>Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone. His own burden in his own way. <em>— Anne Morrow Lindbergh

**Day 0; 2000 hours****  
><strong>

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><p>"Nice shootin' there, Ace!"<p>

Nick was shouting—excited, uneasy, worried, and cynical in his own way. He fired off another round to go with the cheeky grin he was flashing at Rochelle and then sobered up at the expression that was like a punch to the gut as he tried and failed to adopt the role of their group's currently absent soul. The con-man swallowed any other cheer he'd been considering releasing and turned back to the carnage with a grimace.

The look of elation on Coach's face when his hands came upon a chainsaw might as well have been forced.

The former producer somewhere off to the side and mowing down zombies in her own right was letting just the finer traces of a primeval grin tug at her mouth while she blasted away a handful of mindless Infected and slid another couple of shell casings into her smoking shotgun. With the resounding _click_ came the unsettling _urp_ of the one 'special' zombies that Nick utterly _despised_.

"Boomer. Don't shoot him if he's anywhere near me."

Rochelle frowned at his comment, letting loose another shot and then taking his lead in scanning the area for their newest offender. "Good to know, slick."

Nick was amused more so than insulted at the jab, cocking back his Desert Eagle that the tub o' fun was just _waiting_ to become acquainted with.

"C'mon ass hat, where are ya?" Coach chuckled at the slightly younger man's muttering, shutting off his chainsaw and making sure to exchange it for the combat shotgun that would presumably prove more tactful when dealing with the exploding zombie.

Nick was sure to stand a good distance away when said target popped out of the alleyway behind him just moments before the former football coach shot it to hell.

Clear of any goop and whatever else the undead were supposed to be composed of—at least, clear of any _more_ muck that wasn't already plastered across his once-white suit—Nick snickered and made a rather rude hand gesture at the remnants of the Boomer, a bit too caught up in and high on adrenaline to really care too much at the moment. He was still snickering when he turned around, somehow having almost failed to notice the absence of their most rambunctious member amidst all the chaos that morning but letting it all flood back to him in an instant.

"Well I'd say that wasn't too bad, huh Ellis?"

The trio's chuckles went unanswered and cold in a moment, accompanying the dread and _oh God no_ feeling that sunk into their chests when their search had thus far proven fruitless.

"Ellis?" Rochelle called, shooting her gaze back down the street, aiming it all those blocks away at the now unseen battered SUV Coach had yanked him from earlier and in the back of her mind hoping that maybe he'd managed to make his way over to it and was either hiding in or behind it, waiting for them to come back for him. There was no response and she called out for him again, just a bit louder this time. "Ellis!"

The sole woman of the group whirled around, her gaze darting every which way, much in the same manner as the two men with her. Nick's hand was on her shoulder in an instant.

"He's already injured; he can't have gotten far."

Nick's voice was forcibly level, she noticed. Forcibly level and very, very discomforting.

"Shit."

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><p>Ellis had been sitting for an hour or so in silence, his head ducking into his chest as he tried his damnedest <em>not<em> to fall asleep out in the open. The last thing he wanted was for the others to come upon his body mauled to death when they came looking for him.

_If_ they came looking for him.

He quickly banished the thought, thinking—no, _knowing—_full well that the three were going to search for and come find him sometime soon, even if it took them all night. They weren't the kind of people to just walk off and leave him. At least...not as far as he knew.

Nick may have wanted to ditch them, let alone him, at the very beginning of all of this, but all of those days and weeks of fighting surely must have accounted for _something_. So they wouldn't get those 'bro' tattoos then. Ellis could deal with that.

What Ellis _couldn't_ deal with was the nagging feeling poking at the back of his mind telling him that they weren't coming, they were leaving him, he was S.O.L., and he was _on his own_.

He swallowed, forcing back any of the bile that was made up of whatever he'd had to eat that morning (a fourth of that can of green beans they'd found, some stale Saltines in an effort to calm his queasy stomach, and some water that probably wasn't too sanitary) and consciously took in a deep breath in an attempt to clear his head.

The last thing he needed was to lose it after being alone for four-and-a-half almost five hours and having the others show up only to come across him stark raving mad.

Well, he'd have to go back, he decided. He would go retrace his steps and walk on up to them with some shit-eating grin with his arms raised in that _what-can-you-do?_ gesture and claim that he'd just been taking some long-ass piss. He miss anything? Nah? Oh, good.

The young mechanic groaned, his side protesting in almost but not quite forgotten pain as he shifted and made a move to stand, a bit more than 'just annoyed' when it came to having sat on his bum for a good hour. The sting in his leg was pulsating again when the painkillers wore off and left him with the options of either finding himself something else to use on it or risk getting it infected (wouldn't that be a hoot?) if he just sat there any longer.

Ellis heaved a breath and planted his palms firmly against the wall behind him, having slung the strap to his rifle over his shoulder and grunted with the effort. He shoved himself forward, only to find that his legs had lost some sensation from staying in one place for so long (which really wasn't like him—he'd never been able to sit still before, even moving while he slept, and in a situation like _this_ who the hell could afford to _not move?_).

They hadn't lost all sensation, however, when his knee slammed into one of the larger potted plants he'd been sitting behind.

"Ow! _Damn it!_" The Southerner cursed, cupping his hand around his bruised joint and waiting for the abrupt pain to subside. He hissed, his eyes quickly scanning around the area and praying that he hadn't gotten any Infected all riled up from kicking the large vase and scooting it forward a good few inches.

He hardly resisted the urge to punch it.

"Yeah, well, thank you too, asshole."

Ellis shifted and cracked his knuckles. The others clearly weren't coming this way and sittin' n' mopin' around here wasn't going to do any good. There had been that solemn agreement between them all a few nights ago over a dinner of horded canned goods and moldy bread that had to be tossed aside that upon the event of separation, they would all still make a beeline for New Orleans, planning to meet up at a safe house there and then carry on after they'd all regrouped.

Those who made it there first would all wait two days time in regards to a grace period before heading out unless they were suffering from a bleeding heart and had somehow roped the other into waiting with them.

He took a breath and a moment to reload his gun, scanning over the supplies he had shoved into his deep coverall pockets and strapped to his waist in order to simply (and mentally) regroup. His pill supply had already been dwindling to begin with, but he palmed two and swallowed them dry, grimacing at the bitterness for a moment before sliding his other hand against his pocket to account for his ammo.

There wasn't much there, and if a Tank showed up for a tea party he was pretty much screwed.

_Holy shit it was so fast and he was running and running and he couldn't run any faster and his lungs were _burning_ oh God why couldn't he run faster shit this thing was going to kill him—_

With that pleasant thought in mind, Ellis cleared his throat and slid his gun from his shoulder to his hands, beginning his trek in the direction from which he'd come.

He just about drop-kicked his rifle and the bistro chair in front of him at the abrupt sound of gunfire.

His heart pounding in his ears, he struggled momentarily against the urge to cry out: _Here! Over here! Guys 'm right here!_ and let loose another round of his bird call. Relief was fickle thing, but it was his best friend at the moment.

Ellis stepped forward, only to freeze again when he realized that he couldn't pin-pointed the direction from which it was coming.

Relief was bitch-slapped by reality.

As comforting as the sound of gun shots were (and it really shouldn't have been—how screwed up was he now?) realization was like the wall of water he'd belly-flopped into when he was younger on a dare from Keith once when things had been_ normal._ Back then they were not so much only just memories that he forced himself to relive every night because that was all that kept him sane along with the even breathing of the three people who'd become his anchors, the only family he had left in the world.

Guns weren't always a good thing. Hadn't CEDA proven how useless they could be? Couldn't guns mean military and military could be under shoot-first-ask-questions-later orders? Ellis might not have had until later.

But military meant people.

People meant something was _alive_ and he wasn't _dead_ and not everything was lost.

Military meant leaving his friends behind.

Ellis shook his head firmly as he'd found himself too caught up in his mental debate for the past ten minutes to almost miss the Infected charging at him. He slammed the butt of his rifle into the man's face without a second thought and was suddenly sick with himself.

That personal revulsion lasted for all of a split second before he was focusing on the sounds around him again.

Screw it. Gunfire meant people, and these people were the three people he was waiting for. He was sure of it.

He paused mid-step, glancing around him briefly and trying to decide upon which _exact_ direction the gunfire was coming from. It sounded as if it were coming from the West, meaning that they'd somehow passed by him by a block or two by going around him, but from the way it was echoing it could have very well been coming from the East, which meant they had either backtracked or had stayed in the same spot for five hours. They weren't that stupid.

Having gone North would be pointless, so there was only one way they could have gone: South.

Then again, Ellis' internal compass had been so messed up for while now that he probably could have been aiming for the Sun and not known which direction he was going in. (Alright, so that was a bit of an exaggeration, but it sort of fit for the scenario, he decided.)

"This way, definitely." He finally decided, adding in an affirmative nod.

Ellis spun around, unwittingly walking in the opposite direction of his comrades.

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><p><strong>AN: **Well hey, there's that. At the moment I can't tell you how long this story is going to be, save for the fact that there's going to be _some_ length to it seeing as I want to explore some Ellis on his own and darker!Ellis. So...this should be interesting.

As always, reviews are appreciated. I'm curious to see what you think and what you think should happen. :)

And I've asked this before, but are there are Keith stories that you'd like to see in full (in my own interpretation, unless you want to add a thought or two. I'd like to make this story reader-friendly.)? Ellis is going to be telling a few—even if they are to himself.

Cheers!


	3. Day 0 2315 Hours

****/Separation Anxiety/**  
><strong>

**A/N: **Well hey there.  
>Thank you guys all so much for the favorites and alerts! Very much appreciated!<br>I got an Xbox for Christmas and a lil game called Left 4 Dead 2. Time to go be a zombie fightin' champ.

That said, enjoy, review, and watch as Ellis' mind slowly falls apart.

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><p><em>To follow by faith alone is to follow blindly.<em>—Benjamin Franklin

**Day 0; 2315 Hours**

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><p>A rifle clenched tightly in his hands, the uncomfortable thud in his chest and the nausea pooling in the pit of his stomach was all Ellis had to accompany him as he slowly pushed one foot in front of the other. A yawn had been threatening to slip out of his mouth for the past few minutes, and every attempt to stifle it had made his cheeks puff out in a fairly amusing way.<p>

Or at least, it would have been amusing had it not been getting dark (oh hell, it was friggin' _night_, he cursed) and he was alone with his feet killing him.

He glanced down at the steel-toed boots encasing his feet, pausing in his stride to study them and momentarily oblivious to the world around him.

He wriggled his toes without seeing them, feeling them stretch and bend in the worn material that had protected him on more than one occasion. Tromping through a sewer or having a zombie barf on his foot was one thing—dropping a pretty damn heavy wrench on it was something else entirely. He still had the scar of a previously broken foot to prove it.

Ellis smirked at the memory, reminded of the look on Keith's face when he'd had to take the younger man to the hospital instead of vice versa for a change. In all honesty it had hurt his pride more than anything (the girl whose car he'd been attending to was pretty damn cute and didn't he have to ruin it by not paying attention and letting his grip go slack when she winked at him), but Ellis had still had to laugh when Keith brought him the boots upon his cast-less return to the garage.

He'd take a limp over bruised ribs any day.

Ellis heaved a sigh and visibly shook himself. No need to wander on down to memory lane while he was out in the open. Nothing safe about standing there and staring at his boots when there was presumably something watching him and waiting to kill him. He'd be a lone target and remain so until they all regrouped, seeing as his shaky flashlight was the only source of light in the lonely, midnight street.

He started walking.

Something sniffled and began trailing after him.

For a moment he was grateful that the others had always been there to silence him before he got the chance to fully launch into a story of his. Truth be told, even he himself was sure that if got into telling one he'd probably lose track of everything around him.

But it had always been easier to tell them on the run instead of sitting in a safe house. Talking was just easier on the move—when they weren't, time was usually spent bandaging wounds or plotting out the next route, let alone succumbing to exhaustion while someone stood watch. As much as an uplifting tale of Keith insane antics could have been called for at one of those times, Ellis just hadn't had the heart to do it. Rochelle was trembling, Coach was frowning, and Nick was just being…Nick.

Or being an ass.

Ellis smirked.

Yeah, Nick was probably being an ass right now and whining to the others that he didn't want to look for the kid because he was probably dead and wasn't that important.

Ellis paused mid-step again.

Back up.

Now hold on just a second.

Ellis may have been no stubborn or hard-nosed Coach and Rochelle or cynical Nick, but he might as well have been the heart and soul of the group. Who's to say they weren't wandering around losing their minds without him there? He was their anchor—he showed them how to take things in stride. He was pretty damned important, thank you very much.

Screw you, Nick.

Ellis frowned again. "Not my fault you hate me, man." He set off again at a decent clip, taking some comfort in the way his boots thudded against the pavement, making him stand to his full height—not overly impressive, but he sure as hell passed the 'You Must Be This Tall' test—with some new-found courage.

"The hell Ah ever do ta you, Nick?"

New-found courage became age-old dread.

"But ya do care, right? I mean, shit, man, we've been through a lot together since this shit started. Didn' think you still hated me."

He almost stepped on a decayed limb without thinking about it and cursed to himself.

"Yer like my brother, man. Git off your high horse before Ah knock ya off it."

Ellis snickered to himself at his mockery of a threat as the light bulb in his flashlight flickered in the dark.

"It'd be pretty great if we had a horse right now."

He nodded to himself contentedly, striding along and absently toying with the safety on his rifle. While his mind wandered elsewhere his eyes probed his surroundings for the other three and perhaps a place he could hole up for the night. Ellis suddenly glared out at an abandoned storefront, making eye contact with himself in remnants of shattered glass that burned in the artificial light he carried.

There was no way in _hell _he could go and hide up all safe and snug in his own barricaded fortress without knowing where the others were. He just _couldn't_. It wasn't right, and who was to say that the others wouldn't need entry the moment he locked the doors behind him, a horde hot on their heels and no ammunition to their names?

No, he would carry on for a bit longer and see if he could find them—then, and only then, would he allow himself to go search for a safe room and go pass out for a few hours.

His heavy boots scuffed against the ground, almost as heavy as the muscles that were burning after hours of continuous use and no rest.

The safety of his rifle was flicked off upon the groan of whatever Infected was nearby.

"Keep it together, El," Said man chanted to himself, twisting every which way his body would physically allow without screaming in pain to locate its source. "Just keep it together, it ain't nothin' you can't handle."

He'd spent the last three and a half hours walking alone and talking to himself as the night caught up with him.

Talking to himself meant he wasn't truly alone and it kept him sane.

Something in the back of his mind wondered how long it would be until he snapped. Six hours or so—give or take an hour or two, seeing as he couldn't really keep track of them when he was too preoccupied with finding the others and saving his skin—and he'd already resorted to verbally telling himself to calm down.

What were the others doing right then?

The groan turned into a pained moan and Ellis had to swallow past the lump in his throat.

If they found his body, they'd at least bury him, right?

"Oh hell, oh shit, oh hell, oh shit, shit, shit," He took a deep breath in and mentally slapped himself as hard as he could, letting a few miscellaneous thoughts tumble about to be cast aside.

The moan became a growl that Ellis mimicked the moment he pulled the trigger.

He caught a flash of white ("Nick! _Nick!_") out of the corner of his eye as his bullet sank itself into the shoulder of the now enraged Hunter screeching at him and his heart leaped into his throat, carrying along some hope before it just about plummeted.

The mechanic gasped as his back slammed against the ground, the snarling, hooded mass straddling the poor guy and about to rip into his soft flesh as retribution for disrupting its hunt. One of its elongated claws had nicked the tip of his nose when Ellis jerked his head back to avoid losing his face. He fought for the upper hand as he grabbed a fistful of the bloodied hoodie, the image of white still caught his mind as he looked death in the eye.

Dodging the attempted shove from the butt of the rifle, the creature above him snapped the strap of the man's gun, rendering the bit of leather useless. Ellis could have sworn that the damn thing just about _smirked_ at him when it battered the muzzle away from his cheek, tearing it out of the Southerner's tired grip and sending it skittering away. As it moved the flashlight cast shadows Ellis would have found unsettling had it not been for the Infected being sitting on his chest and about to maul him to death.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Ellis brought his knee up with as much force as he could and slammed it into the Hunter without aiming, too caught up in the former of the fight or flight mindset. There was a screech upon impact and the zombie slumped to his side, groaning in a manner that proved that getting hit _there_ still hurt like a bitch even after the Infection.

The human twisted to the side and his fingers fumbled for his gun in the dark.

He was looking death in the eye and there was no way he was going down without a fight.

_Gotta get up, gotta move. Gotta go gotta go gotta go._

The Hunter was slowly and painstakingly making its way toward him again, its hood having fallen back as it collapsed under what have would have been uncalled for pain had it still been human not about to kill him and Ellis' fingers were itching for the weapon he couldn't find.

The screech and pounce was interrupted by the smoking pistol Ellis had managed to yank from his belt.

He allowed himself to stare at the still twitching beast for a few seconds before slumping back against the ground, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he took in a few gulps of air to let his mind and body caught up with one another. The gravel upon the cracked pavement was digging into his back before he finally forced himself into an upright position, maintaining his gaze with the now dead body next to him.

"_Ho-ly_ shit."

He'd just spat in death's face and had the ability to laugh about it.

Ellis was still snickering as he slowly got back to his feet, brushing dirt off of himself and nudged the Hunter's body. "Guess that's what happens when ya mess with Ellis, asshole!"

He chuckled as he finally found his rifle by following the small, flickering beam of light attached to it, sighing at the familiar and safe feeling that came with it being cradled in his calloused and capable palms.

That security vanished the moment his flashlight illuminated the two crimson eyes staring at him before sputtering out.

* * *

><p>"I'm sure he's fine, Ro." Coach murmured, placing one large, warm hand on Rochelle's trembling one. The three had locked themselves up in a safe room they had come across the day previous, finding that they would be spending another midnight there down one person. Nick had taken up residence by the door, peeking through the bars every so often in hopes of seeing a familiar cap bobbing toward him. Rochelle and Coach had plopped down at the table they'd eaten breakfast at that morning, the green bean can still lying on its side from where Ellis had knocked it over during one of his many interrupted tales. "Knowing Ellis, he's probably cooped up all safe and sound or making his way to us as we speak."<p>

_Or he's dead_, Nick muttered mentally, not having the heart to voice the thought they all had. As much as it pained him to admit it, the kid had managed to get under his skin in the short while he'd known him in more ways than one. Ellis had become the little brother he didn't want and the puppy that he couldn't abandon because it just wasn't right.

"We never should have let him get out of our sight." Rochelle was muttering as Nick drew himself out of the inner workings of his own mind. "It shouldn't have gotten this far."

The more withdrawn part of him didn't want to, but Nick had to agree with the woman.

Coach withdrew his hand to run it down the length of his face. "It shouldn't have, but it did. There isn't too much we can do now other than—"

"What, pray?" Nick cut in, shoving himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against and uncrossing his arms. His hands balled into fists at his sides. "Ellis could be dead or dying for all we know, and you want to _pray?_"

There he was, voicing the thought none of them wanted to admit to. All of this frowning and glaring was going to give him some serious wrinkles, an afterthought of his.

"What the _hell is praying_ going to do when we _should_ be—"

"Nick," Rochelle's voice was soft and gentle, always the mediator of the group when Coach and Nick started butting heads or the latter dug into Ellis. Nick was one of her targets. Always Nick. The former con-man was seething and about to grant the former producer a rather scathing remark when he made the mistake of making eye contact.

The strong brown eyes betrayed worry and fear and something in him wanted to reach out to wipe it all way.

"For the sake of sanity, could we just…try?" Her voice broke on the last bit of her inquiry, and the tall man in the suit forced himself to concede.

"Okay."

* * *

><p>"<em>Sonuvabitch!<em>" Ellis exclaimed all in one breath as he stumbled backwards, the sobs that he'd managed to miss during his scuffle with the Hunter evolving into growls and heavily angered breathing. His backside thumped heavily into the ground as he managed to trip over aforementioned body and nearly snapped off his dead flashlight in the process.

He could still make out the furious and wretched form of the Witch in the darkness all the same, and it was as terrifying as ever in the dark.

Ellis eyed the doorway behind her while she continued to shriek and bat at him, even with his body then out of range. He was swearing up a storm and gripping his hunting rifle for all that he was worth, trying to take aim at the wailing banshee making a beeline for him.

He squeezed the trigger and managed to nail her upper arm, succeeding in both slowing her down temporarily and pissing her off even further. The flash of the firing muzzle had illuminated her features and he was biting back a cry. Cursing and aiming it again from his not so great vantage point, Ellis let loose another bullet, twisting away and scooting his way to the threshold beckoning him as his bullet met its mark and gave her eye another reason to weep blood.

She wailed and her hands flew to her face, her knees giving out beneath her.

Ellis would have felt somewhat victorious had it not been for the fact that he was too focused on getting to safety than celebrating. His fingertips graced the edge of the doorway and he yanked himself through it, shoving the door shut with a resounding _slam_ and not resting until he had a desk and other random bits of furniture shoved against it along with the only other entrance on the other side of the room. Taking a breath, the young mechanic surveyed his work before burying his face in his hands.

With a sob, he fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I want to know why my mind apparently thinks it's so much fun to screw over Ellis all the time. Seriously.  
>I mean really.<br>Next chapter more sh!t goes down.

I still need to know what Keith stories you guys want to hear in full! And please, never be afraid to give your opinion on this to me. Feel free to drop a line. I like talking to people. XD

Good night, y'all. c:


	4. Day 1 0800 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/  
><strong>

**A/N:** I'm pretty awed by the response (by which I mean all of those alerts) this story has received thus far. I'm touched that you guys are curious enough to see where this goes. Quite frankly, I am too and _I'm _the one who's supposed to be writing this! haha.  
>That all aside, I'm sorry if this and the next few 'Days'chapters or so are a bit slow_—_I want some sort of build up before Ellis' mind shatters rather than jumping right on into it. We're only a day into his solitude so far, so I'd say it could be a little bit before his psyche starts to fully waver, even as it's starting to now. I also have a few other questions that I want to ask, but I feel they would be best left until the end of this chapter, or else I'll be leaving a pretty long note here.

That, and I feel as if the summary I have for this story isn't so hot. I've gone through a few, and the only ones I've liked are this current one and the one before it. Same goes for '_an enemy bigger than my apathy_' (which I am STUCK on the last bit. gosh.). I have some ideas, if any of you wouldn't mind me bouncing a few off of you. It would be much appreciated.  
>And I'm peeved because I have failed twice at getting that stupid Guardin' Gnome achievement. Once because I dropped him in the damned helicopter. I'll vent my frustration through Ellis.<p>

Also: those typos & mistakes in the last few chapters? I deserve to lose the gnome. derp.

Anyway. Here goes. Day One. Part One.

* * *

><p><em>I had a fear of being alone.—<em>Gail Gaynor

**Day 1; 0800 hours**

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><p>The stitch in his side was what woke him.<p>

With a grunt Ellis squeezed his eyes shut tighter as fabric brushed against his nose, and he frowned at the muffled noises around him. He sniffed and nuzzled his face further into the cloth, feeling some sort of strange sensation in his knee as he tried to push aside anything else that would distract him from the sleep he so desperately sought after. Besides, Coach would promptly wake him from his forced slumber when it was time to head out.

_Coach_.

Ellis' eyes shot open at the mere thought of the man's pseudonym, finding himself staring directly at his clothed kneecaps with his face firmly pressed into one of them. His arms were folded neatly and numbly before him, tucked into his sides as the oncoming anxiety accompanied slowly approaching full consciousness.

After having dropped to the cool floor the night previous Ellis had curled his body into a tightly-knit ball, each exhale warming his lower thighs and explaining the discomfort pulsating in his side. Quite frankly, and in the back of his mind, he was surprised that he'd managed to sleep for a solid few hours in such a position, the arm he was laying on having gone numb in the process.

He was greeted with the sensations of pins-and-needles in said appendage when he finally willed his body to move, steadily unfolding his legs enough to give him some more than adequate breathing room. Extracting himself from his own body he let a lone yawn escape him as he registered how tired he truly was—not only sleep deprived, but physically exhausted as well. His body could only take so much damage before it gave out on him, and his mind was still reeling from the process of having to comprehend such a vast amount of information (not limited to injuries and the hell that was his world) in so little time.

Blinking and feeling moisture gather somewhere along his eyelashes, the young man gave the expanse of floor around him a confused stare, gently dragging the tips of fingers against the skin just below his left eye. He brought them away to study the digits for a moment before repeating the motion, his confounded frown growing as realization dawned upon him.

Oh, so now he'd resorted to crying himself to sleep? Such a pleasant thought, given everything.

Giving his cheeks a few more angry swipes Ellis rolled onto his back, stretching his not-quite-as-long-as-_some_-_people's_ legs before him and flexing his toes. He gave the ceiling a good scowl as his elbows and forearms slid to his sides against the smooth surface beneath him, using them to prop himself into a sitting position.

It took a few solid moments for everything to set in.

Gasping as the bruise on his knee and the gash along his calf below it roared to life he almost crashed to the floor again, deciding that spending the day there and fermenting in the silence ought to do him some good while he awaited the cavalry. Bull_shit_. He damn well knew that rolling around on the ground wasn't going to prove useful in any sense, and so what if things hurt now? He'd had worse over the past week let alone day, and it would presumably be nothing like what he was sure to endure in the near future.

The Tank and Witch roaming around out there somewhere would be sure of that.

The Southerner just about chuckled to himself quietly at the thought of them ganging up on him at the last moment had it not been for how terrifying the thought was. One or the other on their own was enough, but having the two together would require both the strength and willpower that he didn't have at his disposal.

His mind fuddled with sleep and the lack thereof Ellis bent his knees toward himself before willing his body into a standing position. The stance wavered for a moment, but he had yet to be sent plummeting to the firm and unyielding ground he'd spent the night on. He grunted and shifted again, finding that his weight favored his good leg which was all well and dandy, but what use would that be when it came to having to sprint in the opposite direction from what was the onslaught of an oncoming horde?

Wincing at the thought and the burn of his leg, Ellis instead chose to tear his attention away from his troubled thoughts and let it wander to the door against which a desk and cabinet had been shoved in order to keep out an undesired guests, still hoping that someone would come knocking and that there would be some disgruntled comment demanding entry.

There was none.

Surely the others would have found him by now. They were probably just outside the alleyway in which he'd fought both the Hunter and Witch, respectively, not all that long ago. Why the hell wouldn't they be? It wasn't as if Ellis had truly traveled that far—he'd somehow managed to loop around, coming across the sorry sight that had once been the SUV they'd so conveniently borrowed, and the now deceased Charger laying prone on the ground next to it had been a clear indication of their presence. He'd stared at it blankly then, taking in its misshapen snout and the massive hand limp and reaching out for the young body it had never been able to grab.

Ellis had prodded it with his foot for good measure and then skipped back a few good paces to make sure of the fact, but it was most assuredly d-e-a-d _dead_ if from the way its gimpy arm bobbed back into its initial resting place was any hint.

That had been just before it had gotten dark, only an hour or so after he'd heard the screams of gunfire and about...two and a half before the incident with the Hunter that he'd kneed in the groin and the Witch who was now missing an eye because of him.

He found no comfort in that thought.

"Well piss on this." He snickered halfheartedly in a weak attempt to boost his morale, still equally as _pissed _as he had been only twenty-four hours before, if not understandably more so.

Flexing his arms and stretching his body in any which way that didn't result in any agonized pain, Ellis gave himself some time to wander aimlessly around the room he'd holed himself up in for the night only to curl up on the floor. That was nothing overly impressive—no hidden food stash that had decided to reveal itself, no miscellaneous power tools he could mindlessly toy around with—and it lacked any and all wall scriptures that had been found in the other safe rooms. Reading them had become something to pass the time with and something to snicker at with Nick in a delirious state of drowsiness, and now he found something gnawing at him in their absence.

The walls were stained with a light tan that had clearly been chosen as a neutral color for whatever establishment this office had once been part of, and the young man was exceedingly grateful that he also had yet to find any trails of blood stretched lazily across the floor or beneath either doors. On the wall opposite him sat one of two windows in the room, both covered in boards obviously put up in haste but with the right idea in mind. They had thus far served their purpose of keeping out both Infected and people alike, but had also succeeded in allowing in only a minimal amount of light, leaving his eyes to strain as he further studied his quarters.

What interested him the most, however, was the faded and skewed frame hanging above the space where one of the desks had once sat before it had been shoved through a thin layer of dirt and dust until it sat where Ellis had wanted it. As he regarded it carefully, something in him made him snigger sarcastically, not fully sure whether he was entirely amused by, or wanted to scoff at the motivational poster glaring back at him blindly.

_Challenge / Always set the trail, never follow the path._

He snorted—much in the same manner of the man he was trying so desperately hard not to think about but doing so anyway—and continued he short trek, taking in each detail as if it ought to have truly meant something. The metal shelves along one of the walls earned a huff from him when he bumped into it, not having been able to move it and use it as a barricade.

It was only once he'd been absently trailing his finger along the rough patchwork of a boarded-up window that Ellis realized he was mumbling words for his ears only.

"Only a day and nah Ah'm talkin' to m'self. Don' look too good now does it, eh guys?"

The sole response he received was the gentle whistle and caress of the draft snaking its way through one of the pockmarks in the glass hindering his view of the outside world.

"Yeah, Ah thought so too."

Sighing and grumbling about nothing in particular, he went back to finishing up his study of the room. Internally he debated wrenching open the door across from the one he'd flung himself into the night before and scouting out the rest of the building, only to mentally tick through the repercussions of doing so. The last thing he needed was for whatever Infected that were milling about to become aware that his pockets weren't necessarily full of ammunition, or God forbid find another crying girl laying in wait.

The instinct to survive outweighed the burning curiosity of his youth. The fact that he was on his own without someone to watch his back only added to that.

Ellis just about laughed himself silly when he suddenly stumbled, tripping over his own foot; one of his large work boots would later prove to be the culprit. He collapsed against the heavy metal shelving behind him, knocking binders and cardboard boxes to the floor in a haphazard mess as he fell to it.

The laughter died down as a rock sank in his stomach at the clatter, counting down the second as he waited expectantly for the yowl of a horde signaling his death. They slid by sluggishly as the last bit of paper fluttered to the ground beside him.

Ellis swallowed and nothing happened.

There was no sudden hush, no ragged footsteps or ungodly pounding at the door; the sound of Ellis' exhale from the breath he'd been holding was the only noise in the room and for that he was only partially thankful.

"Thank you, Jimmy Gibbs Jr.," He murmured, letting his head loll back onto one of the shelves.

_If the laws of nature allowed it, I would bare that man's children._

He was still smarting over the sight of his zombified personal deity, and Nick's muttering about damning him hadn't exactly eased the wound any. Even Coach had glowered at him as he grumbled; Rochelle hadn't said much, but she'd clearly been annoyed all the same. Perhaps it had been sudden 'uselessness' of the car (How in the _world_ could the Jimmy Gibbs be _useless_?) that had perturbed her.

He found his mind wandering back to those three people who'd turned to him with that '_Ellis, is now the best time?_' look and he sighed in a manner that pained him and left an otherwise hollow feeling in his ribcage. Running a hand down his previously damp face the boy scowled and let an angered huff, choosing to release the emotion by grabbing the box nearest him and chucking it as hard as he damn well could at the wall glowering back at him. His eyes snapped open into steely little slits as he waited for the impact, the image of the _Challenge_ man on a mountain burned into his peripherals.

The small square hit the plaster with a rattling sound before falling to the dull linoleum tile beneath it, remaining immobile as its contents shifted around. This left Ellis to narrow his eyes as it coldly, either waiting for it to explode or perhaps for something else to occur. What that 'something else' was, he didn't know.

Carefully removing himself from the papery wreckage of his own making, the mechanic bypassed binders full of monetary accounts and old business newsletters as he slowly crawled toward his former projectile and it was a miracle that his screaming leg allowed him to do so with only a few hisses. Shoving aside one of the other boxes that was in his way rather than getting to his feet to step around it, Ellis sat on his knees, slowly dragging toward him the misshapen lump of cardboard, leading to another round of rattles.

He regarded it curiously for a moment before sliding his hands beneath it and lifting off of the ground, giving it another shake.

It took him all of three seconds to rip it open.

And holy Hell was he about near ready to piss himself when he did.

Ellis' hand dove straight past the bit of stationary proclaiming the business' name—some sort of florist shop, though he had no idea how the _hell_ to pronounce the name of it—with a quickly scrawled note to someone named Daryl about being ready and meeting at some street address that Ellis assumed was their home, even though his attention was much more focused on what was _in_ the box rather than who it had been intended for.

"Don' think you'll be needin' these much, Daryl. Sorry, man." He said (with only a bit of remorse, really) as he extracting his fist, rolling a magazine around his calloused hand. Briefly he wondered why in the world the back of a florist shop had a small stash of clips, but he wasn't complaining—far from it. Then again, he and the others had managed to find ammunition and guns in so many random places before that by now it was almost expected to crop up in bushes.

"Maybe there is a God, and He don't hate me so much anymore."

Speaking softly to himself, Ellis sat back on his heels and placed the box back on the floor in order to examine his newly acquired find.

"Funny thing is, where's yer pistol then? These bullets ain't gonna be no use without one, and Ah don' think chuckin' these at them zombies is gonna do much neither."

He hummed thoughtfully, caught between taking everything he could and leaving behind something for the man that was presumably never going to show his face again. Ellis sighed again and palmed the magazine he'd been tossing between his hands for the past few minutes as he thought.

"Tell ya what, Daryl and..." He paused, leaning over to glance at the note he'd cast aside. "...Jamie. You lemme take this 'ere ammo., and I'll try 'n see if I can find ya. Now Ah know tha don' seem like a lot righ' now, but it's the best Ah can offer."

He'd give them protection if he could, but there was no use in giving away something he hardly had himself.

"Ya see..." Ellis trailed off, finding himself trying to catch his breath and work up the nerve to admit to something he hadn't been able to last night. It was difficult enough think about it, and what made him feel worse was the fact that in some ways it truly wasn't all that much time at all. "Ah'm...I'm lost. I don' know what town I'm in and my friends are lookin' fer me, but fer them ta find me I need ta leave, but I need these bullet 'ere to do so. I don't know where they are righ' now, but I do know that I can't...I can't leave them like this. I _can't. _I need to make sure they're all right, 'n if they're not..."

Something in the back of his throat caught at his words and tried to choke him with them.

"I..I don't want to be alone."

Ellis' body slumped as he murmured, quietly repeating the words to himself as he leaned back, staring unseeingly at the boarded window before him.

_ I don't want to be alone._

The box meant for Daryl sat beside him in silent company.

"Thanks, man. I 'ppreciate it."

Swooping down on the box like a vulture to a freshly rotting carcass—or a zombie to a dying human, if he wanted to be more up to date, ha ha—Ellis stuffed what clips he could into the pistol that he'd let clatter to the floor the night before along with his hunting rifle as he'd collapsed, and what he couldn't into the pockets of his coveralls. The bullets for the rifle could wait for now—he only had about twenty on him, and they only lasted so long.

Although his stomach was rumbling something fierce and his body still ached, Ellis smirked and prepared himself for the oncoming day. A quick scour of the desk drawers had procured little more than a box of matches and a roll of duct tape, but it was more than what he was hoping for. The matches went straight into his pocket and the duct tape proved useful for quick repair when it came to the leather strap of the rifle that the recent Hunter encounter had managed to snap, but he figured it had little use otherwise, so it was left behind. He'd need a new battery for his flashlight, but hopefully he'd be able to find another before dusk, if not his friends.

It took a great deal more effort than it had last night to move the office furniture away from the door as adrenaline had overridden weariness in the heat of the moment, but Ellis was able to slowly push the door open with only minimal amounts of cursing and toe-stubbing.

He held his breath as he cautiously peered through the gap between the door and the wall, not hearing the Witch's sobs, but not hearing complete silence either. She'd vacated the area shortly after having been shot over the course of the night, and Ellis found something deeply unsettling about not knowing just where she was. Off down the street two of the more common Infected were busy throwing punches at one another while one lounged lazily on the ground at their feet, oblivious to their weakly moving fists.

Quietly closing the door behind him in order to somewhat honor Daryl and Jamie in whatever way he could, Ellis smirked, cocking his rifle and ensuring that the safety was off. He strode away from the abandoned florist's shop steadily, aiming his sights at the decaying individual rotting on the pavement before yanking back the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot and the dying groan was enough to get the attention of the two swinging at each other, turning their gazes and slack jaws in the direction to which they believed the sound to have come from.

It was almost too comforting (in a sick way) to raise his gun again and shoot them where they stood before their intelligible cries grew any louder or more insistent. Ellis let a breath out through his teeth, his cheeks puffing out as he watched the man and woman slumped to the ground. Daryl and Jamie's mouths hung open in silent screams, arms outstretched and out of reach of one another.

_Always set the trail, never follow the path._

The noise from the rifle and the three dead Infected clearly did not go unheard as another small handful came running around the corner, somewhere in their confused minds knowing that guns only meant two things: death or food.

Ellis was their former.

"Please," Ellis muttered, slinging his rifle across his back and pulling out his pistol and steadying himself as he took aim at the nearest zombie. The man's screaming was cut off as his head jerked back with a new hole in it, his legs still propelling him forwards before giving out. Ellis had no time to contemplate this as he shot down the few moaning and yelling masses stumbling after that. It truly didn't take him that long to clear out the small group, each officially dead before they hit the ground.

"I make my own damn path."

It was with this bitter humor that he brought his hand heavy with a gun back to his side, staring at the bodies laying out on the street before moving on.

The grin returned to his face as he carried out with his task of relocating his friends, picking up a brisk pace and heading in the direction that he only prayed would lead him to them.

_I don't want to be alone._

His stride faltered.

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><p><strong>AN:** Holy moley. Didn't think this chapter would be this long. Which is kind of funny, really, seeing as I just sat down to write this and more or less just ran with whatever popped into my head. Initially it was going to be rifle bullets that he found in the box, but then I thought that was going too far and making him just a bit too lucky. Ammunition for pistols seemed much more believable.  
>Yeah, it doesn't seem like much happened in this chapter to me, either. There's going to be roughly two chapters per 'Day' in this story, and I still don't know just how long Ellis is going to be on his own for. It could be a while though, but for the moment I'm telling you nothing more. But please, excuse the pace if it gets on your nerves at all. I'll try to update at least once a week so you can breeze by any bits you find boring.<p>

As for the questions I said I had in the beginning note, well, let's see...

**1.** It has nothing to do with the story, but you know other campaigns that you can download for L4D2 on the Xbox from the first game, like 'No Mercy?' I have just enough of those points where I can 'afford' it (I probably could have more if I had more than two games—those games being L4D1 & 2. What can I say, they're my first Xbox games. I had standards), but I want to know—is it really worth it? What does that entail, exactly? Can you play as the L4D2 characters, or the ones from the first one? If I wanted to play with Zoey and Bill, I'd play the first one.

**2.** The summary for this story—anybody willing to let me bounce a few ideas off of them? Summaries aren't my strong suit.

**3.** I'm not really looking for a beta, even though I fail to proofread a lot of my own stuff before I post it (which becomes obvious, as you can see my edits usually the next day), but are there any of you that would be up for letting me send you bits and pieces as I go along with this story? Nothing too much, just when I hit a runt or worry that I'm going off on too many tangents, and you can give me your honest opinion. They'd be sent through messages through this site. Just for a second opinion.

**4.** How exactly do you cr0wn a Witch in the first game? My friend told me to use a shotgun and I did, only to have my face near ripped off.

**5. **I'm considering working on yet another story—something with a lighter mood (even if it includes Ellis injuries. D:). ...any **Zoey/Ellis** shippers out there? ;D Truth be told I'm not much of a L4D shipper in any regard really, but I had an idea I wanted to explore and a misguided crush to tamper with.

**6. **Lastly...any good Xbox 360 games you'd recommend? I don't exactly want to burn through my wallet and being a college student doesn't leave too much time on my hands other than the two week left of Winter Break that I have left, but any recommendations? I'm not much of a first-person shooter gamer (other than Left 4 Dead, obviously)...and I have to admit that Bioshock looks pretty cool...

I need more points so I can afford 'The Passing' without spending them all. D:

So there, the end of my question session. As always, hope you're enjoying the story so far and willing to stick with me until the end. ...whenever that comes along.

Any other Special Infected you want to see? Keith stories you want to hear? Let me know!  
>Reviews are appreciated and will be used to bandage all of Ellis' wounds.<br>And trust me, there should be quite a bit.

Please do; I'm lonely. D:


	5. Day 1 1715 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/  
><strong>

**A/N: **Thank you guys all so much! I'm really glad you're liking the story so far. Please, don't be afraid to share your opinions. I'm going to try a few other styles while I write this at certain points, so please don't hesitate to tell me what you think of them. Like here, for instance. While this story is supposed to be centered around Ellis—and it still is, don't worry,— I want to include a few bits that show you what the other three up to. Namely the fact that they are in fact looking for him, contrary to what Ellis might think.

That said, you might not see these guys for a while, and when they do make some appearances, they'll be short and such.  
>Yeah, we'll cross that bridge when we get there, eh?<br>I've figured out now that this sort of takes place after '_an enemy bigger than my apathy' _(which I don't even fully understand _how_ because it's not even _finished_ yet) in regards to the fact that it hints at the conversation and interactions between Ellis and Nick in it. Yeah, I dunno either.

If'n ya squint a bit, y'all can have yerselves a bit a' Nick/Rochelle while we're at it.

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><p><em>Before the throne of the Almighty, man will be judged not by his acts but by his intentions. For God alone reads our hearts.<em>—Mohandas Gandhi

**Day 1; 1715 hours**

* * *

><p>Nick was sincerely waiting for Rochelle to hit him, though she was much too caught up in her screaming fit—aimed very well at <em>him—<em>in order to do so. His words to her had been harsh but honest, and her anger at them was understandable. While he knew full well that a reaction to this extent should have been expected, that hadn't meant he had been fully prepared for the verbal beating. As he shifted his weight and kept his hands buried deep into his worn jacket pockets he continued to stand his ground, something in his eyes just _daring_ her to strike him as he decided that her fist would then presumably hurt much less than her words.

Where her eyes had once been warm pools of light in a dismal world now resided two seething pools of anger, though he could find hints of pain swirling somewhere within their depths.

His study of her eyes and facial expression—he was a damned good poker player for a reason—was swiftly interrupted with her verbal backhand.

"Just who the _hell_ do you think you are?" Rochelle had never really been one to curse (What did 'son of a bee sting' even _mean?_), but when she did so on occasion it was with good reason. Nick had to earn her fury and in that moment he was set for life. "You _asshole!_"

Her hands were clenched into shaking fists as her arms tucked into her sides, and the older man just _knew_ it was from the mental strain of telling herself not to strike him. No longer wishing to be part of this one-sided tirade, Coach turned and strode down the block a few paces, keeping a careful eye out and remaining within screaming distance if need be.

Taking the elder's quick departure as an invitation for the 'go ahead' to tear into Nick further, Rochelle's boots clicked her closer to him as her eyes narrowed into the slits typically only reserved for those special moments—those special moments including but not limited to: an oncoming horde, a sobbing Witch, and as of lately, a man named Nicolas.

"How—How _dare you!_"

When she finally hit him, he wasn't ready for it.

He let out a wheeze as her fist slammed his chest, knocking him back a step as she caught him off guard. Thinking that she now had the upper hand, she advanced and lashed out again, still ranting and cursing him the entire time. In all honesty, the first punch had been a lucky shot, and Nick wasn't going to let her get away with another freebie.

Grabbing her wrists in a manner that wasn't overly tight nor very comfortable he struggled with her for a moment, planting his feet firmly on the ground as he resisted the urge to throw his weight against her, if only to get her to stop swinging at him. Nick ducked his head to the side as he stopped another blow, deciding to let Rochelle work off all of the pent up frustration and anger that had been building up inside of her ever since they'd watched those helicopters flutter away so long ago.

What he hadn't expected from her, however, was the sob that ripped its way out of her throat at that very moment.

She shoved against him, more to released her wrists from the slender hands curled around them than to punch him. Her efforts proved to be in vain as the tugs on her end grew weaker while she eventually wore herself out. There were unfelt tears sliding down the producer's tired face, but whether they were from exhaustion or misery, neither of them could say. She drew in a ragged breath before finally letting her arms grow slack, hanging her head as she closed her eyes against the moisture pooling within them.

"I can't believe you," Rochelle's voice was quiet and hoarse, but carried the same impact it would have had she shouted it to the heavens. Nick didn't have to physically jerk to flinch.

Her lips were heavy and numb, yet she moved them all the same. "How could you even think that…"

Nick was not a touchy-feely emotional guy. He was not the guy stuck in the friend zone that constantly offered a shoulder to cry on—if anything, he was the man that leveled whomever with a certain _look_ that clearly stated 'shut up and suck it up.'

In that instant, Nick was not that man.

To say Rochelle wasn't prepared for the way his arms suddenly encircled her would be an extreme understatement. Her breath audibly hitched in her throat as Nick quietly pulled her into him, his slow movements making it obvious that he was both unsure of himself right then but also that something in him _knew_ she needed comfort that didn't come through violence.

She choked back another cry as she felt her face press against his shirtfront, buttons digging into her chin and nose. While he may have once found some pride in his cherished and terribly discolored suit, Nick let the woman stain it with tears and clutch it with the trembling fists he'd released.

The last hug he'd given a woman had been a few days before the Infection struck, and even then he didn't think a drunken arm slung around some lady's shoulders truly constituted as such. The 'bro-hug' Ellis had granted him with a few days ago didn't quite count, either.

Nick's body tensed as Rochelle's grip on him shifted, but whether it was from his discomfort or fear of being awkward, she didn't know. All the same, the arms wrapped around her felt much safer than those of the Mudmen trying to drown her.

Nick didn't regret what he said next, he wasn't overly at ease with it either.

"I'm sorry," He whispered it somewhere over her head, and she held him just a little tighter. The last time he'd said those words had been to his ex-wife, and that had been to placate her and get her to stop screaming at him. Where she'd apparently approved of his near groveling, Rochelle fold solace. "I'm sorry, Rochelle."

This time, Nick meant it.

The woman's sobs devolved into hiccups muffled by blue cotton, but she made no indication of being bothered by his apology. Coach quietly watched the exchange out of the corner of his eye, gloved hands maintaining a firm grip on his shotgun and Nick held trembling Rochelle in his firm, capable arms. She hadn't accepted Nick's words, but she hadn't rejected them either.

He didn't push away like she was expecting him to. If anything, he held her a bit tighter, as if struggling to maintain his own hold on reality, reminding himself that he wasn't alone (unlike Ellis, who was miserably wandering down a street calling out for his friends with an edge of fear in his voice). The man didn't hum, didn't pet her hair, and didn't whisper empty promises of everything being alright or any other trivial nonsense.

He just made her feel human.

With a final sniffle Rochelle began to pull away, brushing the heel of one palm across her eye and the other her cheek. Nick's release was a bit slower and more hesitant, but he finally let her go all the same.

There was no 'thanks' or 'I needed that' or playful jab at how Nick had a heart of gold behind that stony mask, just a nod, a hand wiping away a few more tears, and the straightening of a collar. There was some sort of strange sensation in his chest as Rochelle turned away to pluck her discarded axe off the of the ground, but Nick quickly associated it with the guilt twisting his stomach into knots as they made eye contact again, and he could see the traces of anger in her brown eyes again.

If only to lighten the tension between them Nick let out one Ellis' trademark bird calls, if only to end the day on good terms and hope and pray that maybe the boy could hear him. A cracked grin made its way across Rochelle's features, and some weight fell off of the conman's shoulders.

Even then, he knew she would never forgive him for believing that Ellis was probably dead.

* * *

><p>Ellis stopped where he was and frowned, narrowed eyes slowly examining the line of buildings and shops around him.<p>

"Sounds like a bird's chokin' ta death." He muttered to himself, pausing for a moment before forcing himself onward. Some sort of hope had built up in his chest, but it was the idea that he was simply hearing things that ruined it. "Probably nothin', but…"

The mechanic trailed off, stopping again with his mind reeling. If anything, that noise could have simply been a few of the Infected making noise, some deformed door hinge caught in a non-existent breeze or God forbid an actual _bird_ that he hadn't seen in who knew how long. It would be a while before he would admit that he was hearing things. He hadn't gone insane.

…yet.

Ellis grimaced. The last thing he needed was to lose it. His mind had been one of the only things to keep him sane, and as of lately that method was failing him more and more. Being left alone with it at night had only led to bad things and he'd be damned if he was going to lose more sleep because of it—he hardly got enough of it to begin with.

In some ways, Nick had made him feel better after a couple of cigarettes and a long talk, but that had been a few nights ago and neither had mentioned it since.

But Nick wasn't there right then and Ellis didn't have any cigarettes either. Not that he even wanted any to begin with, but maybe something about having one would have been comforting.

The unlit crushed remnants of the last one the older man had given him didn't quite count, and it sat in buried at the bottom of his pocket as a reminder that he hadn't been alone and someone had carried to listen that night.

There was no one to listen to him anymore.

Fingering the mutilated roll of dried tobacco Ellis sighed and pushed his feet forward, unsure of where he was going, but knowing that he needed to go somewhere.

That night he had his first nightmare in days.

He awoke alone, terrified, and broken.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **So this is it for Day One. In which Ellis is practically ignored.  
>To be honest, I don't quite like this chapter as much. I don't really know; something about it just irks me.<br>I guess. That said, it's a lot shorter than the last, but the previous one was really only long because of the long-ass note at the end of it. I want to update this at least once a week, so some chapters may be shorter than others. That, and only so much can happen at a time. There will be quite a few moments in this story where Ellis comes close to finding the others only to fall short, somewhat similar to what just happened above.

Thanks _Nirex, MayaDarkling,_ and _IKillZombiesforFun_for your answers! They really did help. :)

And thank you to _MayaDarkling_ for help with the summary and your awesome Ellis accent. I swear I choked on air. :|  
>And thank you <em>Nirex<em> for being psychic and basically knowing what's going to happen later in the story. I swear, there is some mental link here. But you tell anyone, and I'll...I'll punch a Witch and blame you. Because that's a good threat.

Feel free to let me know which Keith stories you want to hear and what Special Infected you want to see! I want to make this reader friendly and also more or less send Ellis through hell. You know how it is. XD

As for the Zoey/Ellis story I mentioned in the last note: It's actually not so much a 'romance' as it is Ellis getting the crap beat out of him and then a whole bunch of other stuff happening with a bit of ZxE 'shipping' mixed in. I've started writing it, but I want to get a few chapters done before I start posting it. So expect the first chapter sometime within the next few days, if you're interested. if not, that works too. :)

Anyway, that's it for this. Enjoy, or the Karma Charger will find Ellis.  
>And he will, trust me.<p> 


	6. Day 2 1120 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/  
><strong>

**A/N:** I was really excited when I started writing this chapter, but then I got sidetracked and didn't get a chance to finish it up. xD and then I did. ಠ_ಠ  
>But yeah. I mean, dude, I cr0wnd a Witch, converted another friend into liking L4D2, finally finished off '<em>apathy<em>' and got a certain something in the mail. Now Ah jus' need mah hat, and Ah'd be all set. ;D  
>though I'm too afraid to wear my Bull Shifter shirt for fear of staining it. I suppose I'm odd like that. My parents don't think I'd wear the hat because I don't wear hats much, but I digress. I mean, it's <em>Ellis'<em> hat. Y'all are jus' jaded. (and if I bought it and didn't wear it my mother threatened to make me eat it, lmao. xD)

For those asking for my gamertag: my xbox live free month trial ends on the 26th (Dear 'Keith,' why you no log on more so we can play? I thought we were friens, ya buttmunch. -'Ellis') so even if I did add you, we probably wouldn't even be able to play.  
>and I've never played online. I'm too afraid of looking like a n00b and pissing everyone off because I like goin' after the Witches. e.-<br>I dunno, I'll figure it out. Y'all jus' ignore me. seriously.

I feel really bad writing this chapter.  
>but if I feel bad now, I'm going to feel horrendous later on.<br>just sayin'.  
>'cause I mean...shit.<p>

* * *

><p><em>I restore myself when I'm alone<em>.—Marilyn Monroe

**Day 2; 1120 hours**

* * *

><p>Ellis groaned in his sleep, twisting onto his side and mashing his face further into his pillow. The mass beneath his head happily conformed to the contours of his head as he shifted, curling his arms around it and enjoying the sensation of it and the blankets wrapped around him.<p>

He thought nothing odd of it until a door creaked open somewhere nearby and a figure slithered through with a gentle cough, gently padding across the worn floor until it came to rest beside his bed. The mechanic frowned at the feeling of being watched, but felt that feigning sleep would grant him a few more blissful moments of peace.

"G'wan, Ro," His voice thick with sleep as he murmured, shifting around until he had his pillow pressed firmly into his face with a frown. "I'll be up in a minute."

It was the chuckle above him that had his eyes open faster than he would have thought possible, had that thought occurred to him in that instant. He instinctively froze and awaited the voice that would presumably follow, if only to figure out whether he was awake or dreaming. His once calmed breathing had stilled as well as he lay in silence.

"Who's Ro, man? Tha' yer new girl?" There was another chortle and the muscles in Ellis' back tensed. The drawl sounded so _familiar_, but in the way that one would dig through old boxes in the attic to come across a once forgotten memory with a name and face that just couldn't be placed. But oh God, if this was who he thought it was…

Ellis turned—painstakingly slowly—to face his visitor, afraid of what he might or might not see and tried so hard to form some rational explanation in regards to the sudden appearance of the person next to him. Maybe he was dreaming—hell, maybe he was even dead.

Oh God, if this was who it sounded like…please, let him be dead. He wouldn't have been able to handle anything else, especially a twisted reality.

His heart was pounding so very _loudly_ in his ears as his breath hitched in his throat, staring up at the chuckling, lanky man standing above him with a bemused grin upon his scarred face.

"…_Keith?_"

Completely disregarding the fact that there was no logical reasoning as to why his best friend was in the same room as him since the apocalypse had started, the younger of the two launched himself out of his bed and at the invincible man. Keith staggered as Ellis practically tackled him, startled by the sudden display as something akin to a sob tore out of Ellis' throat.

"Jesus, El." He wheezed, reaching up to timidly plant a reassuring hand on the man's trembling back. "Ya look like ya jus' seen a ghost er somethin'. Kinda like that time I was in that graveyard, y'know. When that guy—"

"Keith," The blue-eyed mechanic cut in, relishing in the fact that he could both actually address his friend and that said man was _actually there._ He grinned and, realizing that the taller man was a bit uncomfortable with the choking bear-hug going on, pulled away to stare at the confused, amused expression on the other man's face without looking too misty-eyed. "Is now the best time?"

Keith practically barked with the shake of his head and gave a light cough. "Shit, man, I dunno. C'mon, kid."

Ellis was tripping over his bare feet when the laughing man reached out to suddenly grab his wrist and gave it a good yank, dragging him towards the door. Unbeknownst to Keith, Ellis busied himself with studying his surroundings in awe, his breath catching again when he realized he was in his old room from his childhood, his mind going too haywire to realize that something was clearly _wrong_ with this picture. His hand thumped harshly against the door jamb to his former bedroom, letting Keith pull him down the hall toward the staircase he'd tripped up and down enough times in his life to leave a few good dents in the woodwork.

His fingertips carefully traced along the worn wallpaper donning the wall next to him as his eyes roved over the photographs of his life spanning the years, taking in the first-grade school picture missing its two front teeth, the one of him fishing with his father, and the one of his brothers pointing mockingly at their matching sweaters on Christmas Day all so long ago, hanging firmly beside the one taken at his graduation with his friends and family looking prouder than he would have thought possible.

He paused for a second as his gaze lingered on the group picture of he and Keith with Paul and Dave in front of the garage they all worked at, arms looped loosely around each others shoulders as Ellis doubled over at something stupid Keith had said, Dave's eyes roving skyward and Paul looked a bit perturbed at his brother's antics. They'd taken another, nicer picture with the Bull Shifters smiling properly afterward, but this had been this one chosen to hang above the reception desk, along with the Midnight Riders' poster and a silly batch of stickers some client's child had pasted to the wall.

The same photograph was saved folded and beaten in his wallet.

If Keith noticed his charge's slow fumbling, he didn't say anything. He practically chucked his comrade onto the landing and the familiar sound of something sizzling in a pan caught his attention as his heels slammed against the hardwood.

If he was back in his old house, didn't that mean—

"Ellis? You all right there, hun?"

Ellis almost threw himself down the stairs, letting them and then the floor pound against his feet as he navigated his way around miscellaneous furniture to propel himself into the kitchen. He was sent backpedaling as he almost plowed into the table and then the hot stove.

"Ma!" His voice cracked as he embraced the wiry woman, tugging her away from the heated frying pan as he pressed his face into her mousy hair. She blinked, but hugged her son back nonetheless. It was a well-known fact that Ellis wasn't the tallest person in the world, and life had granted him the gift of being only a few inches taller than his mother. Even then, her bony chin pressed into his shoulder as a slow smile formed. She went to pull away and return to making breakfast, only for her youngest child to tighten his hold on her for a moment before letting her go.

"Hun, is everything okay?" The woman's head tilted to the side as she studied a bruised face, reaching up to gingerly touch one. Ellis enveloped her hand in his and shook his head, trying to pass it off as nothing and wanting to focus on something other than whatever wounds he may or may not have had. His grin faltered as she stared him down with the same blue eyes that he'd inherited from her.

Keith coughed again somewhere behind him, shuffling around to seat himself at the kitchen table to oversee the exchange.

"Just what were you thinking last night?" Her soft expression had hardened, leaving the sizzling stove completely ignored and Keith leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees in amusement. In that instant Ellis was nothing if not beyond just a _little_ confused. As his mother crossed her arms to all but glower at him his mind was sent reeling, trying to piece everything together in order to figure out just what was going on.

Last night? What had happened last night?

He visibly frowned as he ticked through foggy memories and something that sounded like gunfire. Last night...last night there was...there had been...he was in a room, and there was a box...something was watching him, wasn't there?...Daryl...why did that name sound so familiar?...Nick had...Nick!

Ellis collapsed into a nearby mismatched chair, burying his face in his hands when thinking proved too painful. His head throbbed, blood pounding in his ears as he slumped, once again capturing the attention of the only two people in the room. Fingernails dug into his scalp as his fingers curled in pain in the absence of his ever-present cap. How the _hell_ had he gotten back here? Last he knew he'd been somewhere in Alabama if not Mississippi with only a hunting rifle and pistol to his name looking for the three other people that had been watching his back since the zombies—

"And _now_ the hangover kicks in!" Keith said, leaning back in his chair and laughing even under the glare of his other mother.

"The what?" Ellis frowned. He had no recollection of being drunk or even having had anything like that to drink for the past few days, water being a rare commodity that they all struggled to hold on to. There was no room for alcohol during his misadventures either, as getting plastered would only hinder their chances of survival. Keith snorted and his mother rolled her eyes.

"Shit, man, I ain't ever seen you so wasted!" His language earned a quick _whap_ from Ellis' mother and he rubbed at his bicep as a result. "S'rry Mrs. Bad-ass Zombie Killer, but it's true. Boy kept going on 'bout zombies and how he didn't ever git ta finish one uh his stories. Was kinda funny ta lissen to until he started goin' on 'bout how he got ditched by the others. Dunno who the others are, but he started gittin' real worked 'bout it."

Keith shrugged, drumming his fingers on his thigh before pounding his other fist against his chest as he hacked again.

_This here? Oh, this just means that I'm a bad-ass zombie killer._

Ellis regarded both of them carefully, glancing past his mother as the pan let out a harsh sizzle, and it was then that he noticed it was completely empty. He frowned and rubbed at his temple, trying to convince himself that there was something he was simply over looking. His mother sniffed and drew a hand across her face, raking long, slender fingers through her thin hair.

"That boy and his zombies, I swear. One day they're gonna crop up and he's not gonna know what to do." She drawled softly with a chuckle. They then proceeded to talk amongst themselves with a few misplaced, low growls, discussing Ellis as if he wasn't even there. He was left to observe them for a moment until he shoot up, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. Mrs. Bad-ass Zombie Killer rose an eyebrow, but made no move toward him.

_Ma, help me please._

Nausea churned in his stomach, and he was left stumbling backward and slamming his back against the threshold. He winced, letting out a gasp as he fumbled for the doorway.

_Someone help me please._

Keith granted him with an indifferent look, childishly sticking his tongue out at his friend in the process. Had his mind not been spinning and his equilibrium so off-balance, he would have easily noted its discoloration and the fact that it was longer than it was supposed to be. His mother sniffled again, her eyes growing dark and watery.

Spinning around with his feet thudding heavily beneath him, Ellis numbly tripped out into the living room where the television set was faintly buzzing, making a beeline for the powder room in which to rid his stomach of whatever contents it had. His breathing grew ragged as the room spun around him, grasping a small nightstand and sending it to the ground, the books stacked beside it toppling over as well. He was barely able to register the book titles before he hit the floor with a pained groan.

_The Zombie Survival Guide...Chocolate Helicopters...God Damn You, Jimmy Gibbs Jr., The story of Nick. _

"Ell...is?"

He rolled onto his side, fingers desperately clutching for the arm of the nearby sofa to hoist himself up off the ground. Drawing a breath, he hooked them into the faded material, his legs heavy and numb beneath him. He puffed and wheezed as he rested his chin on the arm, his heart pounded erratically at the sound of shuffling in the kitchen. Peering through its entryway, he eyed the empty frying pan momentarily, somehow ashamed that he hadn't thought to snag it before tripping out of the room.

"Kill all sons of bitches, right? In other news, there was a goat..."

Ellis stared incredulously at the T.V. screen, bewilderment passing through him as Rochelle graced it with the local News 10 logo orbiting beneath her. He would have questioned it further had it not been for the sudden thump in the next room and the not-so delicate coughing fit that he knew had graced his eardrums a few too many times over the past few weeks than he cared for.

"El..." Fear replaced dread because that coughing had never ended well. "Yer an idjit, El..."

He stared at the doorway with his chest heaving, wanting so desperately to look away but finding himself incapable of going so.

"When ya gonna realize...ain't no such thing...as zombies...yer jus'...insane...yer a fool...stupid...ever had...a...nightmare...you thought was...real...?"

The mechanic squeezed his eyes shut tightly, praying for whatever God there was to strike him down. The last thing he ever wanted to do was to have to fight for his life against his best friend. He was panting and the tears flowed freely at the approaching footsteps, letting out a cry of pain and misery as he slumped helplessly against the couch. He sobbed for himself, for the others he couldn't find. He sobbed for the ones he lost and the ones he'd left behind. He sobbed for what he'd done, and what he was about to do.

_'Member how we came up with that deal a while back, kinda like a stupid joke when we was drunk that one time? Y'know, in case one a' us turned inta a zombie or sumthin'? Shit, we were sure stupid, weren't we?_

"Do ya...believe in...those scary stories, El...lis?"

_Can ya save me, Ellis?_

He shook his head nervously, unable to hear little else over the ringing in his ears and the dull ache coursing through him. He felt rather than heard his mutilated best friend crouching beside him, his words garbled by his wheezes and the dislodged, fleshy mass dangling out of the side of his mouth. It brushed against his elbow and he recoiled, the ragged breath heavy in his ear.

"Ya better...start...believin', Overalls..." He chuckled through a gasping cough as his broken friend trembled before him.

_Oh God, Keith, oh God, please no, please, please, please I can't do this  
><em>

"Yer in one."

_Pleaseplease_please__please__please__please__please _someone oh god please_—

And suddenly Ellis was on his back with Keith's hands winding around his throat, hissing and grinning and looking utterly maniacal as his facial features fluctuated, the younger too petrified to even attempt moving. He couldn't do this. Even if it was in self defense and one was a raging maniac, there was no way Ellis could bring it upon himself to kill Keith.

The pads of the thumbs with sharpened nails pressing into Ellis' jugular spurred action, winding back as much as he could and giving the human-being-turned-Smoker a solid right hook. He panted and his grip on the young man loosened, falling backwards while the mechanic's hands fumbled for something he could defend himself with.

In retrospect, there was something almost amusing about bashing Keith over the head with _Chocolate Helicopters_, but he couldn't help but sob as his best friend crumpled to the aged floor. Shaking all over he let the book fall as well with a quiet thud, Rochelle droning on about zombie swamp people and cryin' bitches.

"Oh God, Keith," He whispered, his voice quivering as much as his body. "Keith, I'm so sorry...Keith, Keith, I'm sorry..."

Ellis crawled over to his friend slowly, tears tracing the scraps and bruises on his face as he timidly reached toward the other man. He proceeded to continue his broken apologies, cradling Keith's head in his arms and sobbing through ragged breaths. The body below him began to stir, but he ignored it and clutched his brother to his chest, begging for forgiveness.

Now he just needed to get his mother out of there and—

—how long had she been crying?

* * *

><p>"No!"<p>

Ellis screamed, flailing his arms blindly as he struggled with his friend's forceful death grip. He panted, dabbing at his once again damp face as he struggled to process what he'd just witnessed and been forced to endure.

It took five minutes of gasping and sobbing before his mind finally registered it as a living nightmare, and one of his most screwed up ones at that. Reminding and convincing himself that his mother and Keith were just fine took a great deal longer, the more logical side of his brain telling him that they'd already been evacuated (he'd watched them leave) and that nothing like what he'd just witnessed had ever happened. The more emotional part of his brain was still screaming in pain.

He weakly slumped back into the bed he'd been borrowing once the mental screaming fit had stopped and his breathing had calmed somewhat.

And then suddenly he was pissed.

Snarling, he tossed the musty blanket he'd been using to the floor in a battered heap, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and propelling himself across the room in enraged pacing. He snatched a bulb-less lamp off of the nightstand beside him and threw it at the wall as hard as he could, grinning in grim satisfaction as the pottery shattered in the bedroom of the building he'd deemed safe enough.

The safe house was in was just that: a house. A single-level, one-bedroom abode he'd decided to crash in for the night. It wasn't much, but it had more preferable than continuing his jog with that horde hot on his heels. It had taken more time to barricade himself in than usual, but usually he wasn't doing it alone and it was much easier to move a heavy sofa with more than one set of arms. All the same, sleeping in a bed had been nicer than the floor he'd been curled up on the day before, taking Daryl's ammunition and doing little more than idling.

Having been too exhausted to do so the night before, Ellis fumed and began exploring his surroundings, taking note of the fact that the shower appeared to be in working condition and if he was lucky he might just be able to score a quick meal from whatever may have resided in the cupboards.

That didn't mean he was any less pissed, however.

Scouring through the kitchen had procured little more than some moldy bread and a can of ten-year-old pineapple, neither of which Ellis found at all appealing, no matter how desperate he may have been. The next cupboard revealed a rather nice set of plates, and he'd reached up to check around them for any food when he jostled a stack and accidentally sent the top one sailing to the linoleum floor and shattering around his feet.

Somehow, the destruction made him feel better.

Reaching up the grab another one, Ellis turned and chucked at the opposite wall with all of his might. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth upon impact. Grabbing another one, he repeated the action, fingers itching for the next plate. Each time he released one, he sent a furious yell with it, associating every circle of ceramic with something that had been nagging at him for the past few weeks, if not his entire life.

Once the whole set lay in a heap of broken shards on the floor he gave a full, dark smirk. He took a deep breath, going to retrieve his rifle and pistol from the bedroom he'd passed out in, bending over to scoop up the supplies he'd dumped out of his pockets before succumbing to sleep. The extra clips he'd acquired the day before were followed by the small matchbook, but overall there was little else on the floor that belonged to him. His wallet was bruised and laying haphazardly at his feet, and he ran a calloused thumb over its cracked leather before pocketing it. Briefly, he debated snagging an extra shirt or perhaps a jacket from the closet next to him but then thought better of it when he realized that he'd taken enough from this household to begin with.

The cigarette from Nick that Ellis picked up off the floor was held loosely in his palm for a moment before it was shoved deep in the pocket of his coveralls without a second thought.

Making his way back outside had taken a great deal of time and effort, but he grunted and closed the door to the house beside him all the same. He peered through the scope of his rifle for a few moments before finding nothing overly impressive or imposing and slung it back over his shoulder, choosing to favor his pistol right then and save the other gun for special occasions.

"Aw, come _on._"

The mechanic groaned upon turning the corner, shoulders slouching and head turning skyward at the sight before him. Cars sat toppled on their sides on the street before him to form a crude barrier, but a barrier all the same and effectively blocking his way. He glanced around and approached the mess cautiously, firmly gripping his gun and ultimately failing to find a way around it until he looked down.

_Christ, not the sewers._

He grimaced, swallowing his pride and dignity as he bent down to pull the manhole cover off of the asphalt, wanting nothing more than to reach up and plug his nose as he took in his last deep breath of clean air before edging closer to ledge that would drop him into the sewer.

It wasn't until he was down beneath the street that he realized the dead bulb in his flashlight wasn't going to work.

"Ain't that a load of shit!" He huffed, looking up through the dim sunlight peering through the open manhole in search of the ladder that didn't exist. Ellis chuckled lightly. "Hah, literally."

With a series of displeased groans he slowly inched his way forward, one hand reaching out for an exit that hadn't cropped up quite yet as the water level slowly grew passed his ankles. He didn't even want to _think_ about what he was walking through. It was just as easy to chant about it being only a storm sewer, but even the mental pep talk failed to be helpful. Something ended up under his work boot with a disgusting _squelch_ and he was struggling for control over his already flummoxing gag reflex.

He just about walked face-first into the ladder, one hand shooting out to grab a rung before he ended up tumbling backwards into God knew what. Sliding his pistol into the holster strapped to his hip, the Southerner shifted around, trying to figure out which side of the railing he wanted to be on in order to properly get out of the sewer. Being in the dark was already unnerving enough as it was, the wandering around with unmentionable muck stuck to his boots was just an added bonus.

One of Ellis' feet slid for a moment and he cursed, reaching up to the next rung and extending his leg in order to shake off shit and piss water.

Blindly, the young man reached up, pressing the tips of his fingers and then his palm against the manhole firmly planted above him and cursed. Bracing himself on the ladder and the curved wall behind him, he gave a shove, grumbling as he fought against the heavy lid above him.

"I ever tell you," He grunted. "About the time my buddy Keith fell down an open manhole?"

With a final yell that echoed in the small space around him, he gave a strong heave, wrenching the manhole cover from its slot and straining to shove it aside. There was a discomfort in his arms—not quite a burning sensation, but an ache all the same.

"He was unconscious down there for like a week." He was muttering while he hoisted himself over the edge and back out into the street, squinting in the sudden, harsh sunlight. Holding a hand over his eyes he glanced around, checking for any signs of Infected, something useful, or at the very least his friends. "Durin' that time, unbeknownst to Keith, they paved over him. Keith had to―"

He gasped and cut himself off as he came face-to-face with an alarmed car, all of a few inches away and the bumper threatening to bash him in the head if he wasn't careful.

"Oh shit."

Ellis took a breath and slowly worked his way to his feet, putting extra effort into making sure that he didn't grant the vehicle the opportunity to make its presence further known by emitting that damned screech it was just holding in. The cover he'd worked so desperately to move was slowly pushed back into its original position in order to keep himself from doing to same thing his best friend had once done. (It hadn't _exactly_ been a week, and Keith was _not_ the deformed monster his mind had depicted him as overnight.)

Crap, the car next to it didn't have alarm on it too, did it?

He gulped, fully rising to his shaky legs and trying to maneuver his way around them without making a scene. He honestly wished he had an axe or some sort of melee weapon to use against whatever Infected came rushing at him at that moment. Having a stray bullet imbed itself in one of the cars was the last thing he needed.

It was with some dark, forced chuckle that he muttered,

"You know what would be really bad right now? A Tank."

Then again, the Jockey laughter didn't help matters any.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Uh. I tried to make the bit after the nightmare a bit longer because I didn't want the whole chapter to be just the dream. xD  
>longest chapter yet. Party.<br>Now things are gonna git good. e.e  
>and more...'well, you're kinda f*ck'd, ain't ya, Ayluss?'<p>

Nightmare!Keith was actually going to be a Hunter when I started writing this, but then my mind went 'no, smoker! make him cough and hack and choke people. .u.'

Shush, this mental process is a great thing. sometimes.  
>Anyway, this is when stuff starts getting more action-y and Ellis is pretty much screwed over time and time again. (There are also going to be a few moments [somewhat similar to the end of the last chapter] later on in this story where he comes close to finding the others, buuuut...)<p>

All right, that was fun. I skimped on the sewer bit, I will admit. I kinda wanted to get this done and up. Wrote most of it today too. I was on a rolllll.

Karma Charger feeds off of (constructive) reviews and Ellis' slowly dwindling sanity. c:

Next chapter, ho!


	7. Day 2 1250 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/**

**A/N: **Spring semester and classes are starting up, so updates could be a bit slower, meaning this might just be updated every other week rather than once a week like I had planned. Well, the fact that I decided to start writing another story (it's the Zoey/Ellis one I asked you guys a while back, and I did post the first chapter! shameless plug? D:) might have something to do with that. So yeah, if I'm not updating this, I'm probably updating _Southern Comfort_. But I'm not abandoning either, I swear.

Chapters might also start getting progressively shorter, or at least not the 9/~10 pages that the last one was. Only so much can happen in each one and I'd rather not burn myself out. Yeah, okay. Moving on. Let's let Ellis lose it.  
>and maybe take an arrow to the knee. ahahanotreally.<p>

* * *

><p><em>We're all in this alone.<em>—Lily Tomlin

**Day 2; 1250 hours**

* * *

><p>"Freakin' Jockey's around…"<p>

Ellis braced himself on one of concrete supports behind him, tucking himself into the shade from the walkway above him as he kept a watchful eye out for the cackling little maniac. He carefully slung his rifle into his hands, realizing with a fair amount of dread that he only had some seventeen bullets left for it, so each shot had to count unless he wanted to become a walking sacrifice.

He frowned, desperately wishing he possessed some other usable weapon besides the one in his hand and his pistol. Taking on a Jockey was one thing, but being able to actually kill it was another. A shotgun would have done wonderfully (had he not exchanged with Coach last he'd seen him) or even an axe, let alone a crowbar.

But he didn't have an axe or a crowbar and the alarmed cars weren't helping matters any.

He could have sworn the Jockey laughed out of spite.

"Man, I _hate_ them things." The Georgian gritted his teeth, fingers flexing around his gun as the crazed giggling continued, carefully studying the lay out before him and to the two vehicles that were probably just there to screw with him. Beside one sat the manhole cover he'd slid back into place before climbing out of the sewer, and he chuckled briefly at the mental image of the dwarfed zombie falling down it.

Ellis cocked his rifle and prepared to punch it in the face with it if he had to, slowly taking a step forward onto the sunny asphalt splattered with blood and God knew what when the laughter abruptly stopped.

He froze, and the sudden weight on his shoulders had him tumbling forward.

"You little fu—OW! GET—!" His equilibrium thrown off-kilter, Ellis shouted and cursed the nasty bugger grabbing his head and attempting to steer him around. He dug his heels into the street in order to avoid the cars he'd bypassed just as the Jockey dug its nails into his forehead. The man let out an enraged yelp as it did so and when it started jerking around in order to trip him. "Jesus Christ, is this thing humpin' me?"

It cackled and whirled, and it would have snapped his neck in the process had it yanked on the Southerner's head just a few seconds quicker. Ellis stumbled around, blindly trying to fight back with bloody fingers obscuring his vision.

It had been much easier to fend off a Jockey with Rochelle there to pick it off before it had the chance to leap on him.

Right then Rochelle wasn't there, however, and the hunting rifle he did have wouldn't have done much good unless he wanted to end up somehow blowing his brains out or shooting a hole in the trunk of the car he was steadfastly approaching.

"Oh _hell,_ no!" He ground out, dropping his gun and attempting to throw himself backwards and counter the weight pressing down his arms and shoulders. He hooked his fingers around the wrists with crimson stains in order to wrench them away from his face as the Jockey made a noise to show its frustration with its victim fighting back.

The heel of Ellis' boot hit the support behind him, and he chose to use his former Jockey-look-out-post to his advantage.

The Infected riding him howled when Ellis threw himself against the concrete, its nails digging further into his face as he tried to all but gouge out his eyes. The mechanic let out a yelp to match it as shoved himself forward and then back with as much force as he could.

The Jockey hissed in pain as the young man prepared to repeat the action again, and it brought its mangled hand down squarely on his nose, earning a startled and wounded cry as a resulting trickle of red began.

Its victory was short lived when Ellis heaved himself against the concrete support for the third and last time, breathing heavily just in time to hear the resounding _crack_ behind him. The grip on him slackened marginally and then all together, and he stumbled forward in order for the body to fall off of him and then onto the street.

Panting, he bent over with his hands on his knees to take in the ungodly sight before him.

"Shit, it's still _alive_."

It was more of a panicked question than a statement and it left him staring at the contorted body splayed on the dilapidated pavement. Its huffing and puffing only increased as the small pool of blood and what-not spread beneath it in a manner that made the man's stomach churn.

Ellis wiped his bleeding nose with the back of his hand, glancing blankly at the residue it left on his fingers before absently wiping it off on his coveralls. He twisted, keeping the dying the Jockey in the corner of his eye as he retrieved his hunting rifle. Trying to steady himself as he still breathed heavily he took careful aim at the Jockey's skull in order to put it out of its misery.

And then he made the mistake of making eye contact.

There was no humanity in zombies, and he _knew_ that—Nick had practically drilled it into his brain a few nights ago—but there he was with this _thing_ staring him in the eye and something in him froze.

It was practically asking for it.

Its eyes were yellowed and discolored; the color of angry pus and it was looking at him and asking to die.

Ellis' breath came out in a weak puff as he pulled the trigger, blood splattering behind the Jockey's head in a disfigured halo and its lifeless twitching ceased. Unsettled by the gory sight before him and his stance not overly firm, he hadn't prepared himself for the recoil from the discharge and was sent staggering backwards and slamming against the car behind him.

Its alarm flared to life with a shriek, followed shortly by the wail of an on-coming horde as their bell sounded. The Georgian paled and launched himself back onto his feet.

"Shit!"

* * *

><p>Nick lowered his smoking Magnum and frowned as Coach punched another Infected in the face. His eyes narrowed at the sound of a high-pitched screech that he just couldn't place.<p>

"Do you guys hear that?" Another zombie was met with his gun as the noise continued, but it sounded tinny and far away, as if practically on the other side of town if not a decent number of blocks away.

Rochelle frowned, planting her foot on the body in front of her and yanking her axe of the junction between the Infected woman's neck and shoulder. "Hear what?"

The conman said nothing, instead resorting to wearing his usual scowl as he reloaded his gun.

_I swear to God, if that's you, Ellis…_

* * *

><p>It was, in fact, Ellis. Ellis and a bunch of infected people that were about to bludgeon him to death with their fists if he wasn't careful.<p>

He fired off two shots with his rifle to strike down a few before they got too close, bringing his count to fourteen and exchanging it for his pistol, shoving a clip into it and letting loose. Jaw clenched as he fired, he stepped away from the screaming vehicle and its compatriot, wanting to put as much ground between the two as he could without setting off _another_ alarm.

A couple of punches and pistol whips later, the mechanic had a relatively clear path before him, still mowing down zombies as they ran at him with garbled battle cries. He yelled and grabbed one by the collar, shoving it away from him and to the ground before giving it a swift kick to the jaw.

_"Nothing like a good curb stomping, eh Ellis?"_

An Infected woman ran at him with her teeth bared, bloodied lips pulled back in a sneer before she was rewarded for her efforts with a steaming barrel.

"Shut up, Nick!"

For being on his own and not having a whole plethora of back-up let alone ammunition to turn to, Ellis was do remarkably well.

At least, he was until he heard something that sounded like a dying cat being strangled. A bull-like snort resounded somewhere down the street, almost as if the damned thing was watching and waiting for just the right moment.

"Jesus, the circus in town or somethin'?" His annoyed quip would have been met with a harsh chuckle had the other three been with him, but instead he was granted a couple of moans and confused mewls as the young man tried to find the acid-belching Infected.

The Spitter found him first.

The Common Infected backed away quickly, limbs flailing at the hissing green muck splayed across them and the pavement, separating them from their target. Some fell to the ground shriveling as the acid ate at them with a horrid stench, and from the way it was eroding the bottom of his boots, Ellis sure as hell didn't want to find out what it would feel like against skin—

"Ow! Oh shit, ow, ow, ow, _ow!_" Ellis yowled, hugging his left forearm to him, nerves hissing and screaming at the newly acquired burn. The remaining zombies watched him as if transfixed for a few moments before suddenly rushing forward and into the sizzling pool before them.

Ignoring the shrieks from the figures as they each died in turn and his eyes stinging, the man blindly shoving his pistol into the holster at his hip and fumbling for his rifle as the deformed woman danced across the squatted rooftops. He shoot at her four times, only managing to clip her in the elbow with his one-armed aim before she managed to dart off.

His arm was _burning_.

Choosing to follow the Spitter's example, and turned and sprinted around the crackling puddle that was slowly shrinking, still clutching his wounded arm to his chest and aiming for whatever nearby doorway wasn't locked and would provide him with sanctuary.

He slammed into a brick wall before he was able to grasp a door handle, giving it a solid shove before tripping into the darkness beyond it. Slamming the door behind him and completely disregarding the fact that he hadn't thought to scope the place out and clear it of any Infected he aimed for the staircase, it being one of the first things he saw.

Ellis threw himself up them and toward the landing, hissing all the while with tears prickling along his eyelids at the searing agony shooting along his forearm.

It throbbed all the more when he found another door and closed it behind him, twisting the knob and being all too thankful that this one came with its own lock.

The young Southerner stumbled and cried out, crumpling to his knees and biting at his lip to hold back a scream.

_Oh God, oh God, oh shit, oh God._

He all but threw himself against the nearest wall, grimacing even more when the bruises from his encounter with the Jockey (the remnants of whom lay in that decaying pool of acid) fully blossomed along his shoulders and collar bone.

Very little light trickled in through a boarded-up window, but despite all of the shadows it cast around the room, it gave him something with which he could assess the damage done to his body.

Ellis didn't like what he saw.

_Oh shit, oh hell._

Screwing his eyes shut at the sight and pain he leaned his head back against the crumbling plaster, demanding to know why in the hell he didn't have one of those health kits when he so clearly needed one. His free, shaking hand flew to his pocket in search of those pain pills he'd had a while back, only to them both them and his wallet missing.

He ground his teeth, realizing that the pills had been lost in his scuffle with the Hunter two days ago and he must have somehow managed to drop his wallet sometime between the Jockey leaping on his head and grabbing a magazine from his pocket in order to reload his gun.

Ellis was beaten, defenseless, and alone.

"Ow," His hiss turned into a whimper. "Guys, help, please…Guys…"

The shuffling from the corner of the room and the heavy footsteps that followed sent him on edge, but he was too wounded and delirious to really do much else at the moment other than stay where he was and pray.

The footsteps grew closer and he weakly reached for his pistol, deciding that if he was going down, this person was going down with him.

They stopped right in front of him.

Taking a breath to steady himself, Ellis lifted his hand and took blind aim, about to pull the trigger when they—whoever _they_ were—chuckled.

"You look like shit, Ellis."

_Oh God please no._

He opened his eyes and was greeted by the sight of the man he'd beaten to death in his nightmare.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Guess who.

Oh, and I did try to figure out where this is set, too. I wanted to say either Alabama or Mississippi, because this takes place after the cumulative events of Dead Center, The Passing (which I still have not gotten, yet. :|) Dark Carnival, and Swamp Fever (because the Mud Men were mentioned a while back...), buuut I'm not sure if Hard Rain has happened here yet. As for where he is though...  
>Wait. I don't know.<br>We'll just say it's somewhere between Georgia and Louisiana. ಠ_ಠ

_MayaDarkling _wanted a Spitter.  
>Not sure if she's done just yet.<p>

Also.  
>Do any of you have deviantArt.<br>I (jinx-lin) have the urge to stalk some people. e.e


	8. Day 2 1835 hours

**A/N: **Holy Jimmy Gibbs Jr., I love you guys. ;-;  
>Please hate me later for this chapter and the next. Sometime soon, you'll understand. Go ahead and guess, but I'd rather not tell just yet. ...not that it's that hard to figure it out after I said that, really.<br>But I did order myself a certain hat. c; AND THEN IT CAME IN THE MAIL TODAY AND NOW I FEEL BEAUTIFUL. In a talkative-Savannah-born-and-bred-mechanic-with-a-buddy-named-Keith kind of way. Because that's what I call her. All day, every day.

I wish there were more than just the four MNR songs. I was seriously humming them and rockin' out while I wrote this. Repeatedly. Like a CHAMPION.  
>"Man, this is gonna be like the...<em>fourth<em> time the Midnight Riders have saved my life!"

* * *

><p><em>The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration.<em>–Pearl S. Buck

**Day 2; 1835 hours**

* * *

><p>"<em>Well I'm a half ton son of a gun with a suitcase full of pistols and money…<em>"

His entire body hurt as he slowly began to grow conscious, gently building until it was a dull throb in his arms and the back of his shoulders.

Ellis groaned, his eyebrows twitching downward as feeling crept back into his toes and the arm he was laying on. Drawing in a deep breath through his nose he was rewarded with a rather pungent stench, and he turned his head away with a grimace to roll on the hardwood beneath him. He sniffed once again absently and out of curiosity and his eyes shot open as he registered the smell of decay.

"_But come dawn woman I'm gone, but tonight could be your lifetime honey…"_

He gagged, his good hand flying to cover the lower half of his face as he forced himself into an upright position.

His head spun at the sudden vertigo.

"Unnhh," Ellis groaned out, shifting his palm to his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut in order to keep the room from spinning even more so. He frowned when he opened his eyes again, taking note of the fact that what little light had been streaming in between the boards of what had once been a second-story window had dimmed substantially. There was a light breeze ghosting through it, causing him to shiver as it carried away the scent of blood and death.

He made sure to take shallow breaths all the same.

_"God damn girl, I'm your man, girl, I'll get your engine singin'…"_

"The hell…" The mechanic muttered as his fingertips slid away from his hairline and to the side of his throat only to feel the all too familiar texture of bandages beneath them. He squinted in the steadily growing shadows, trying to arch his neck in such a way that would allow him some view of his shoulder that had clearly been dressed already. The joint cracked as he rotated it, and his attention was quickly diverted to the forearm that still had a pulsating pain to it, only lessened from what it had been initially.

Ellis prodded the gauze wrapped around it hesitantly as his heart began its trek up his throat.

For the life of him he was sure he hadn't thought to clean his wounds or had even found anything he could use to take care of them, save for the dingy t-shirt he had on. Hell, he couldn't even remember falling asleep on the floor or even considering it. The only thing he _could_ remember was slamming the door behind him and falling to the ground in all that miserable pain and—

Oh God.

Shit.

No, this wasn't happening. No, no, no.

_"This sounds good, let me under your hood and we can find out what I'm bringin'…"_

This was just a trick, right? He was still asleep, wasn't he? Hell, he was probably passed out in that last safe room with Nick prodding him in the ribs with his foot telling him to _get up, sunshine, it's your watch_ and grumbling something in his sleep about _c'mon man, five more minutes_.

Yeah, totally.

Asleep and not alone? Definitely.

Ellis even nodded to himself to affirm the thought. Yep, dreaming. …or dead. No, preferably dreaming.

But the ache in his arm and the footsteps and voice were getting louder and closer and sounded all too real for some sort of deformed dream. (He'd already had his fill of screwed up dreams to last him for the rest of his life, so _please_ don't let this be another.) Or perhaps his subconscious had simply decided to be thoroughly detailed while it proceeded to completely screw him over.

The raging mental debate he was losing with himself didn't make him feeling any better or his chest any less tight, so he started to pray.

Oh God, where was his gun?

"_I'm one bad man!_"

Praying did little good as the stairs somewhere out in the hall started to groan, quickly followed by the creak of the floorboards just outside of the door he was sitting next to. When the doorknob starting twisting Ellis all but lost it, bile rising in his throat as he started to hyperventilate, finally snatching his smaller weapon off of the dingy ground by his feet.

He fumbled with his pistol as he tried to get a grip on it, only able to use his one hand as even jostling the other proved to be a poor idea. The Georgian yanked to safety off, aiming it level with where he assumed his visitor's head would be as soon as they came in.

"_One bad man!_" Whoever they were yelled out the second line of the chorus to the song they were singing, shoving the door open as they all but leapt into the rather empty room.

Both men yelped when Ellis pulled the trigger in shock, successfully blasting a small hole through the top of the door in the plaster of the wall behind it.

"Jesus, didn't think my singing was that bad!" The standing man all but yelled, his ears ringing as he regarded the seated one with a curious look. He chuckled, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he had almost just had his head blown clean off. "Man, guess I'm lucky yer a poor shot, huh?"

Ellis scowled at the remark, but remained uneasy all the same.

His mind just loved messing with him, didn't it? It was bad enough he was on his own, but even worse that his mental state was clearly deteriorating. Had it not been for the fact that he was desperate for any form of company the young man would have found it unsettling that it had only taken roughly two days (give or take a few hours) for him to practically lose it, though he did retain quite a bit of sanity for the time being.

That didn't make his sudden visitor any more welcome, however.

"You're dead." Ellis murmured, finding the two syllables the only thing he could say without fumbling with words or letting lose a string of rude words that would have had his mother smacking him upside the head (please, _please_ don't let her show up too). Even then, he still choked on the words he _did_ say.

Keith frowned. "Uh, do I _look_ dead to you?"

He extended his arm toward his best friend as if trying to offer proof only to retract it after a few moments after Ellis blatantly ignored it. The standing man shifted uncomfortably under his friend's narrowed, misty gaze.

"I killed you," Ellis spoke after a minute of silence, whispering to himself as his expression of fear and disbelief was replaced by misery and guilt upon recollection of The Big Nasty Horrible Thing he had to do the night before, his brother's and mother's blood on his hands. "I _killed_ you…"

Keith watched with mild interest with those light eyes of his while the mechanic started scooting as far away as he could, clutching one arm tightly to his chest. Ellis stumbled over broken bits of furniture and other miscellaneous debris before he was forced to stop when his back collided with the far wall.

"I killed you, I killed you…" He repeatedly muttered, staring wide-eyed at the standing man and looking every bit the terrified, caged animal backed into a corner with its lip curled back in a pained snarl as Keith began slowly approaching him. "Killed you, killed you killedyouIkilledyou…"

Spit bubbled between Ellis' teeth and gathered along his lower lip, eying the hand timidly held out to him through the tears prickling in the corners of his vision. He sighed rather than heaved a sob as the older man edged closer to him, kneeling down on his haunches and regarding his friend curiously. His eyes were dark in the dim light. Ellis flinched when Keith brought his other hand to his face to brush some unruly hair out of them (they'd always debated over whether it was brown or just some strange variant of dark red and had never decided on one or the other).

"El," He spoke softly, the finer traces of a smile gracing his scarred features. Ellis could almost make out the hints of the '_I'm a moron_' tattoo he'd once tried to remove beneath his bangs. "El, bud, you didn't kill me. I ain't dead."

"Yes you are, yes you are…" Ellis went to bring his hands up to his head in order to cover his ears only for Keith to reach out and grab his injured arm at the wrist, just above the bandage. The weary Savannahite froze in an instant.

Keith grabbed him.

He felt it.

He could _feel_ it.

His heart crawled into his throat with a sharp inhale as he watched Keith bring his hand to his chest. A second passed and he made to jerk his arm away when he felt it. It was faint and almost nonexistent beneath the fabric of his shirt, but there was still the sensation of Keith's heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

The two men stared at one another before the elder unwound his fingers, leaving Ellis' palm planted firmly on his best friend's left pectoral. He took his hand away just as he reached up to run the other down his face, wiping away a few tears with the pads of his calluses as he went. Realization hit him like a Charger's battering arm and he began blinking repeatedly, ducking his chin into his own chest as he tried to process everything.

Ellis wanted to laugh, hug Keith, slap him on the back with _how and where the hell have you been, man?_ but his arms were trembling too much for him to do so. In the end he didn't have to because his lanky friend did it for him. He grinned and tucked his face in the front of the Midnight Rider's t-shirt (the one from '07 front row center when the small holes in it from the pyrotechnics that had stolen his eyebrows), looping his arm around Keith's back. The latter smirked in the mop of hair freed from the cap lying on the floor where it had landed after Ellis had passed out a few hours ago.

"Jesus, kid." He muttered in the curls tucked under his chin as his brother practically clung to him. "Don't scare me like that."

The shorter mechanic nodded frantically, reluctantly pulling away only when his shoulders started to ache from being hunched over. He ran a hand over his face again to rid it of tears and was silently watched by his comrade as he absently traced over one of the cuts on his forehead in the shape of the Jockey's fingernail.

The not-quite-a-brunette-not-quite-a-ginger chuckled, and it was in that instant that Ellis realized how much he'd been missing his best friend. The man crouched before him had practically been his brother for almost two decades of his life and just when he'd thought him lost to the world here he was, almost as if he'd dropped out of the sky (knowing Keith, even _that_ was probably possible). He'd missed the laughter and his voice, the stupid antics and unruly behavior, swapping stories with their heads jammed under the hoods of cars—hell, he'd just missed _Keith._

He'd missed the cold beers split open at the end of the night, hearing long winded tales of whatever woman his friend had his eyes on at the time (he never, never, not once missed their sarcastic plans when it came to the zombie apocalypse that wasn't supposed to happen), and he just missed listening to Keith talk in general.

Keith had a lower voice than Ellis did, and it had a gentle rumble like rolling thunder clouds when he spoke, just like his father had before he'd died. His accent was also less pronounced than Ellis', which was a strange thing really, considering how they'd both spent their entire lives in Savannah—Keith even longer, seeing how he was three years older.

He wanted to hear that voice.

Ellis was the first to attempt to make conversation.

"How the…How did…" He shook his head in disbelief, suddenly noting the absence of the ever-present hat that had been looked over during his small panic attack that had spiked when his long-absent friend came barging in. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The invincible man shrugged off-handedly while he reached somewhere behind him to snatch the stained blue and white baseball cap off of the floor. "Could ask you the same thing." He frowned and elaborated at the subtle narrowing of his friend's eyes. "I did get to the evac. though, if that's what yer askin'."

He inclined his head toward him while he handed the battered cap to Ellis, and it was in that instant that the latter noticed that its twin was missing from Keith's crown. That train of thought was quickly derailed when he continued speaking.

"I got yer Ma too, like ya asked me 'n all, and took her to the Vannah with me expecting to meet you there. When we didn't see you immediately we figured we'd wait a little longer for you to show up." He paused, breathed through his nose. "Things got pretty hectic because some of these sick people started running at the doors, sayin' that weren't diseased 'n wanted in and 'course then these C.E.D.A. people or whatever didn't like that none so while they're forcing them back they're forcing us _up_ toward the evac. Yer Ma wasn't too happy and started askin' if they could wait just a few more minutes and I started givin' 'em hell because there was no way I was gonna leave without ya."

"Got just about god damn _shoved_ onta one of those damn whirly-birds 'fore I could do much else." Keith's head dipped in shame. ("_Helicopters._ They're called _helicopters._") Ellis regarded him in silence for a few heartbeats. "I don't really know where they took us to be honest—they never said nuthin' 'bout where we was goin' but I knew I wasn't stayin' there long once we got there. Took a while and a bunch of other shit, but I got out and started lookin' fer you."

The Bull Shifters' eyebrows twitched and he tried to adjust the bandage on his arm. The gash on his leg from the Witch had scabbed over, and at that moment it was itching like a right bitch. "Whadyya mean?"

The Midnight Riders stared at him incredulously. "Yer my best friend, Ellis. You really think I'm going to leave you out here on your own? Are you friggin' _nuts?_"

_I was alone and talking to myself and having nightmares of killing you, so yes?_

Ellis murmured something Keith failed to catch.

"You what?"

"I said I wasn't on my own." Ellis said, hearing his own voice falter as he spoke. "I was with some people…I wasn't alone…"

His argument had lost its steam the moment it had begun, that much was obvious. Keith looked none too amused by his friend's would-be valiant attempt at a self-esteem boost, and the kid flinched at his next words.

"Yeah, and where are they now?"

Ellis swallowed and averted his eyes. "We got separated a few days ago…There was a Tank, 'n I…I…"

"Well they seem to care a lot, don't they?"

Ellis flinched and grew silent, clenching the bill of his cap in his fist with a downcast look.

Keith sighed, clearly having felt some guilt when it came to digging at a fresh, metaphorical wound. Emotion started gnawing at Ellis' innards again along with the hunger pangs he'd been ignoring for the better part of two days. One of the other man's brows rose as it growled.

"C'mon, man, let's get you something to eat." The elder said as he rose to his feet, tone abruptly shifting as if nothing had happened. He would have idea how big a chasm he'd just drilled between the two with that simply inquiry.

"I need to get back to them." Ellis muttered quietly to himself rather than verbally respond to Keith, though he did shift and securely slip his hat back on his head. "I need to…"

His best friend stood and said nothing, did nothing.

"Ah know they're lookin' fer me. Ah...Ah jus' know it." The wounded man said, almost chanting to himself because if he said it enough times it would mean it was true and he didn't have any real reason to think otherwise. It _was_ true.

They had to be looking for him.

Had to.

Why wouldn't they be?

They _had_ to be.

Keith turned and walked out the door. Ellis followed, repeating his mantra in his head.

He stumbled down the stairs and found his friend standing mutely in the mess of the kitchen he couldn't remember rifling through. The silent man gestured for him to go continue his search through the dusty cupboards and dismal looking drawers for anything even remotely edible. Digging through the fridge proved useless, and even if he had found something in it he would have had to be on the brink of death in order to force himself to eat it or at least consider doing so.

Ellis shuffled through dirt and whatever littered the floor as he wandered around the small, square room, making sure to keep his back to his friend but his profile in his peripherals. His ransacking of the kitchen only procured a package of stale crackers that he probably would have politely declined before this whole Hell on Earth thing started but right now it was like staring down a whole Thanksgiving dinner. The three half full bottles of water he'd managed to find in the back of a cupboard a shelf above a moldy loaf of bread that would have been more appetizing had it not been covered in blue and green flecks of fuzz were just an added bonus.

Wordlessly, he set his feast out on the kitchen table before combining two of the bottles into one before tossing the empty plastic across the room. He let out a breath and ducked his head, sliding past Keith out into the hallway. His hand had just skimmed the railing when a voice echoed beside him.

"I'm sorry, Ellis. I didn't mean that," The apology was soft, quiet, and it meant something. He raised his head, pulling his eyes from the shadow cast by the bill of his cap and gave a small smile as he tilted it to the side just so. Keith nodded in turn to the silent acceptance.

Retrieving his guns from the room he'd collapsed in earlier that day Ellis managed to somehow completely overlook the dead body slumped in the dark corner behind a mangled dresser. He glanced in its direction and narrowed his eyes all the same, though his curiosity was quickly interrupted by a sudden _bang_ and curse from Keith downstairs.

"Huh," Ellis hummed to himself, wanting to investigate while at the same time wanting nothing more than to leave it be.

The first aid kit clutched in its long-deceased fingers was ripped open and empty.

Ellis failed to notice how crudely wrapped his bandages were or his own blood staining his fingernails.

Never mind the sudden appearance of his weaponless best friend.

"Ready to go?" Keith asked with a smirk, folding his arms and leaning against the now open door frame to wait for the kid as the latter slung his rifle across his back and shoved his pistol into his holster (He turned the safety on, of course. Didn't need it going off while it was hanging like that right _there_.), gathering up his crackers and water, sticking the full bottle into his pocket. He nodded to the older, taller man eagerly.

"Man, Ah was born ready."

"Cool." Keith grinned.

Happily munching on the stale squares of food and chugging down the half full bottle Ellis regaled his buddy with tales of the three people he'd been traveling with over the past few weeks or so, making sure to full him in on personality quirks and the fact that Rochelle, Coach, and Nick never let him finish even one of his stories. Hell, now that _Keith_ was there in the flesh, they'd _have_ to let him!

He laughed, and his voice bounced around the lonely pavement unanswered.

* * *

><p>It took four hours to walk across town—it presumably would have taken an hour and a half less if it hadn't been for that car pile-up blocking their way, but Nick would be damned if he was going down into a sewer again—and Rochelle's shoulders slumped in exhaustion and worry.<p>

"It's only been two days, baby girl." Coach said in that low voice of his. "And this _is_ Ellis we're talkin' 'bout 'ere."

"_Exactly._ It's _Ellis. _What if we're going the wrong way? What if he's hurt and laying out there somewhere and before we can get to him...?" Rochelle cut in, already on edge with hints of ice in her voice, even if she wouldn't use that tone with the leader of their group. Hell if she wouldn't turn that malice loose on the conman though.

_What if he's afraid, dying? What if he's dying alone?_

Nick was left to pick up the rear as their exchange became little more than a reassuring buzz in his ears. He clenched his jaw just as he did his fist on the handle of his Magnum, trying to keep a watchful eye in the dark as the clip-on flashlight cast unnerving shadows down the street.

A repulsed sound from Rochelle broke his concentration, and he stopped to tear his gaze away from the squat roof of a nearby building to locate the source of her sudden disgust.

The already mutilated body of a Jockey lay haphazardly on the street before them beside a pile of dead Infected, all obviously having been burned by Spitter acid in some way. There was a light breeze and the smell of it all finally hit the three of them full on, leaving them to gag and stumble about.

Something clicked, and Rochelle started calling out. "Ellis! _Ellis!_"

Coach joined in and Nick was about to before his foot suddenly collided with something with a rattling noise, rolling away and catching his attention before his lips had even had the chance to form the 'El.'

Crouching down and aiming his light under what had clearly been an alarmed car his narrowed his eyes, picking up the bottle of pills that he'd just kicked. He frowned at it, but pocketed it nonetheless and was about to stand when he spotted something else and paused.

Grabbing the clearly well-worn leather he unfolded it and smirked for the first time in two days. "Son of a bitch."

Nick flipped Ellis' wallet shut and stood.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**_ Well well, see me in hell, why don't that surprise me none?_

This chapter drove off a cliff, broke both of its legs and its head. Or at least, _I _feel like it did. Not in the funny ha-ha way, but more in the make-you-think-I-bashed-my-face-on-the-keys-and-winged it way. ಠ_ಠ  
>So until I can learn to get over thoughts like that I'm going to go stick my face in my hat and grin like an idiot because apparently I'm intelligent.<br>Admittedly, I've also noticed that the first two chapters of this story are a bit slow going, and I've been considering editing them again or maybe combing them into one, but ehhhh can't do that.

In some ways, I almost regret doing this 'Day/hours' thing, but then at the same time I realize that I sort of like it. xD

One of my professors mentioned Gnome Chompski today. I almost lost it.

I like how I said chapters were probably going to start getting shorter and then my brain goes 'nuu! Ellis word vomit gogogo! 8D'  
>Keith is only an ass here because Ellis &amp; I need him to be.<p>

haaaaaaaaaaat  
>Keithhhhhhhhh<br>D:

...real or not real?


	9. Day 3 0620 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/  
><strong>

**A/N:** Meh. I had more fun writing the last chapter of S.C. because it's not quite as angsty and mind-fu-huh-huh-king as this story is and at times I like it more.  
>Chapters are getting shorter. [gah y u do this.] I don't know what I'm doing with myself anymore. ಠ_ಠ<p>

* * *

><p><em>God created man and, finding him not sufficiently alone, gave him a companion to make him feel his solitude more keenly.<em>–Paul Valery

**Day 3; 0620 hours**

* * *

><p>"The way I figure it, gasoline should burn any which way, should'n't? Not the case when't's pissin' down 'n' ya can't in fron' a ya fer shit 'cause it's rainin' so bad. 'Course Nick found out th' hard way when he chucked a sum of it at a Tank. Shit burned for alla what, five seconds? Man, that ain't nothin' compared to this one time jus' af-er that in the swamp—'n there weren't no gators, case ya were wonderin'—'n there were these mud people and we—Keith, man, ya ain't even listenin'."<p>

The young man pulled a dejected pout, his youth flickering through the dirt and grime still lining his facial features as he aimed the look at his best friend. In response the latter let out a sigh from where he sat next to him in a crouch against the wall, hazel eyes roving around the small shack the two had holed up in, if only to let Ellis rest some. Not that he was truly resting by any means. The older man picked absently at Dusty's face on his shirt as he stared down the large hole in the knee of his faded, stained jeans and said nothing initially.

Ellis almost grinned in a reminiscent manner—the last time he'd seen Keith this pensive had been the day before they had been separated. In some strange way where the absence of the ever-present daredevil smirk had been unnerving then right here and now it was almost welcome. It made things more…real.

But Ellis wanted to see him smile, if only just once more.

"Well, the three of us started out on top of this burnin' building—The Vannah hotel, y'know?—, 'n we had to fight our way down like, five floors of zombies—"

"—But on the third floor Nick got tackled by a Jockey which was pretty funny until it almost took him out a window but Coach saved 'im before Ro got pounced by one uh those leapin' things which you killed right when a Boomer puked on ya." Keith cut in and practically dead-panned, finishing and summarizing (while also skimping on the best parts of) the entire story all in one breath. There was stunned, confused silence in the one room as these words were digested.

There was some hurt that settled below his chest at his friend's tone and sudden bluntness (sure, he talked a _lot_, but Keith had never gotten so annoyed with him—hell, he _encouraged_ the story telling. It had served as Ellis' coping mechanism for years.), and Ellis drew in on himself mutely until realization suddenly dawned on him.

"Ah never tol' yew that," He whispered, tired mind churning away as he tried to remember sometime in the past twelve hours or so that he'd told the hotel story without any success. Sure, the young Georgian had said plenty about his new friends, but never how they'd all met. He just hadn't gotten to it yet. He'd been about to tell the tale, but how did Keith already know…?

Both men frowned simultaneously.

"Uh, yeah, ya did." The one with the almost auburn hair muttered, finally turning to face his shorter comrade.

"Uh, no, Ah didn't." The one with the cap and perplexed blue eyes retorted. "Ah'm pretty sure Ah'd 'member tellin' yew tha' one."

There was a pause, and Keith's shoulders jerked with a shrug. Ellis scowled at him, wordlessly demanding explanation. They regarded one another carefully for a few moments, staring each other down like wounded animals about to strike, trying to gauge the reaction they received.

Keith was the first to take control of the situation with a quick, short statement as an excuse.

"Yer jus' real tired, El. Ya prolly don't remember."

Some switch flipped in the admittedly tired man, and he went from puzzled to annoyed.

"So what if Ah am? Tha' dun explain nuthin'." The mechanic already had an audible drawl to begin with, and the on-set of exhaustion only highlighted it. His older friend sniggered which only irked him further. He'd practically talked his best friend's ear off over the course of the night—garnering a few nods, _uh-huh_'s, and _oh, really_'s—but that was only because the scarred man seemed to have very little to say and the few silences there had been quickly turned awkward.

Besides, hearing Keith's voice made him all the more real.

Getting back to the point though, no matter how many tales he had told about the Spitters he'd nicknamed as Nick's mom and ones reminiscent of their eventful daily lives before the apocalypse he could not for the life of him recall ever talking about The Vannah and how he'd come across the other three. It was odd, really, considering how it ought to have been the first one out of his mouth, but he'd simply been too caught up in the fact that his best friend since the dawn of time was still alive.

Still, Ellis couldn't figure out why Keith's sudden knowledge was bothering him so much. It really wasn't that big a deal, was it?

Keith chuckled and abruptly snapped him back into his warped reality.

"Ellis, look, you're tired. Go to sleep, bro."

The young man shook his head childishly and mutely, blue eyes narrowed and studious. The older man let out another sigh, reaching out a hand to gingerly place it on Ellis' shoulder in reassurance.

Ellis hardly felt it, but he attributed it to him simply being too tired to process the contact.

He just stared at him for a few more moments. The hazel eyes softened and something in the young mechanic almost wanted to forgive him. Why exactly, he didn't know for sure. The way Keith was acting was still bothering him tremendously, being all fidgety and closed off—too much so for his usual demeanor.

While the hand gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, somewhere in the back of his mind he thought it felt more like the bandages becoming undone. All the same, his eyelids grew heavy, starting to droop down on his wary eyes, his vision of his best friend wavering as the events of the last day finally caught up with him. The last thing he saw was a blurred smile.

"Go to sleep, Ellis. I'll be here when you wake up," Keith said.

Keith lied.

* * *

><p>Nick had waited until the others had fallen asleep before he began his study of Ellis' wallet.<p>

It was made of cheap leather, crude, an almost nasty looking brown color and damn near indestructible, from what he could tell. He weighed the beaten thing in each of his hands, flipping it deftly while he stared down at it, almost afraid to open it. In all honesty it was quite strange that he'd nearly spent the last two decades rifling through other people's money and had had no problem with it then, but right now...

This was almost sacred.

The former conman frowned, letting something akin to a growl snaked through his teeth until he cut it off, not wanting to give the sleeping figures the wrong impression.

A week ago he would have flipped open Ellis' wallet and drained it of any and all money he had in it, but at the moment, opening it was like...well, he didn't know. Maybe he was just too tired. Nick glanced over at his immobile comrades, light green eyes tracing the scowl that was permanently snaking its way across Rochelle's brow as her thoughts undoubtedly flickered around their man currently M.I.A. Part of him wanted to reach over and brush it away, tell her that things were going to be fine, that they'd probably find the hick passed out in some nearby home because he was probably just too tired or stupid to move onward.

Please, _please_ don't let him be dead.

As much as Nick couldn't stand the kid, that didn't mean he wanted him to _die_. Sure, there were times where he just wanted to pop him in the kisser just to get him to shut up, he wasn't about to wish for his untimely death.

Perhaps death would have been better than the...alternative.

His nose twitched at the thought. If they found Ellis and he was Infected, then the world had definitely gone to shit and hell combined and their anchor had dropped out from beneath him.

To be honest, he actually _missed_ those stupid Keith stories. Hell, he missed _any_ of those stupid stories in general because if they were being told then that meant they still had a fighting chance. On the spot battle tactics and calling out the young man's name didn't exactly constitute as conversation and he sort of missed having someone to say _shut up_ to.

It was...different have to keep watch through the rather lonely night without the young Southerner; too quiet, uneventful. He didn't like it.

Coach snored and he took it as the go-ahead to fully explore Ellis' wallet rather than take a simple glimpse at the license as he had initially.

He took one good look inside of it and stilled.

There wasn't much in it, save for the standard driver's license from a DMV and the State of Georgia that identified the once nameless mechanic as twenty-three year-old Ellis Ladin McKinney, blue-eyed, brown-haired and standing at a height of five-foot-ten living at an address that didn't mean much anymore. It turned out he was fairly photogenic as well, as Nick himself could attest to not many driver's license pictures turned out too well. The scar on his nose was still visible, though his cap was absent, presumably held firmly in his hands after he was told to remove it.

He looked...strange. Not inhuman, but not quite the Ellis Nick knew either. Here there was no dirt or stubble scattered across his face with bits of dried blood (his own and others), just a clean shaven face and a light grin on his mouth and in his eyes before he became just another file in the system.

He was just a face without a name and a name without a purpose.

So what was he now?

He was alone, probably terrified and bleeding to death and going to die alone without someone with him that knew his name and would tell his story.

Would Nick end up like that?

Half of dozen other horrible scenarios involving either him or the mechanic flashed through his mind, and appreciated none of them.

The bruised wallet had a few other scraps of paper in it that were of very little interest to the man—an old I.O.U. from someone named Dave, a quick note about a part he needed to grab for the shop, a phone number, and a few plastic cards including a rewards card for something Nick assumed was a grocery store (Save 4 Less—wasn't that the shop where they'd grabbed that cola for that hermit?)—and he was about to close it and shove it into his own pocket for safe keeping when something else in it caught his eye.

At first glance he thought it was just another bit of paper without much use and meaning to him, but it wasn't until he gave it a gentle tug that he noticed the folds in it. Nick slid it carefully from its leather tomb, setting the closed wallet on his knee as he studied his newest find. Upon further examination he found it to be a folded up older photograph faded along the creases. On the back written in careful, block handwriting was scrawled:

**_'07 Paul, Dave, Ellis and Keith. 3rd Anniversary of Ellis inheriting the shop from his father._**

**_Keith being a moron, as usual.  
><em>**

The corner of his lips pulled up into a smirk before it froze, quickly flipping to the other side.

"Holy shit, he's real," He muttered to himself, slender fingers smoothing out the picture as he tried to cast it in the right light of the slowly rising sun. He looked a bit tired and worse for wear, but damn if Keith wasn't real. And here he'd been second guessing the kid the entire time. It took a minute before he realized that he'd never seen Ellis smile like he was here, so huge and earnest, taking up most of his face in bashful pride as he stood practically doubled over in laughter in front of the garage he worked at—no, _owned_—with his arms looped around the shoulders of his closest friends as he celebrated three years of taking control of it.

It finally hit him then how young Ellis truly was, as he had to be no more than twenty-one when this picture was taken.

But if he 'inherited' the shop, then that meant...well, shit. The kid had never mentioned his father and Nick had never thought to ask. He'd heard enough tales about this fantastic meatloaf and mac 'n cheese that made his mouth water at just the thought, but never anything about his father.

Nick couldn't help but frown at the thought, eyes still glued to the frozen face of the young man he dared to call his friend before they slid to the man on his left, features twisted in an odd smirk, causing what appeared to be hazel eyes squinted at the camera, tips of unruly auburn hair falling into them. He snickered as he took in the logo splattered across his shirtfront (Ellis must have had that Bull Shifters shirt for years now, seeing as he was wearing roughly the same thing he always did in the picture, though his hair appeared a bit longer and his coveralls had been replaced by jeans.) and recalled one of the many exclamations Ellis had made at the entrance to the Whispering Oaks Fairground what felt like ages ago.

_"Check it out! That's the Midnight Riders! I saw 'em in oh-seven. Front row center! Lost my eyebrows."_

Clearly he and Keith had done just about everything together as the latter donned his concert shirt proudly along with a pair of jeans that looked as if they had seen better days (or before they had taken a good dose of 'Keith') what with all of their stains and the hole torn through what had once been their knee.

And then Nick took in the varying expressions of the four men again, Ellis undoubtedly the youngest and most amused as he smiled without a care, Keith grinning like a fool, leaving who he assumed to be Paul and Dave looked either annoyed or otherwise unimpressed with the idiotic man on the end.

It was with sick realization that the thought dawned on him: these men, if they weren't dead or otherwise indisposed, wouldn't have let their young friend get separated from the pack. They would have watched his back day-in and day-out, would have let him talk, would have let Ellis just be Ellis. They would've have turned him down at every turn, wouldn't have rejected him when he clearly just needed someone to listen, wouldn't have insulted him on a daily basis.

Ellis' friends wouldn't have left him for dead.

So where did that leave these three?

He glanced up at his companions, guilt pooled in the pit of his stomach.

Nick was going to find Ellis, even if he had to die trying.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Well then. I guess not every chapter can have action it in, and I need a few to tie some things together.  
>You all get to meet my favorite Special Infected in one of the upcoming chapters. I'm looking forward to the showdown. ;D<p>

Still taking bets as to whether you think Keith is real or not.  
>tch tch tch tch...<p> 


	10. Day 3 1630 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/**

**A/N: **Ahhh Chapter 10 what! I don't think I've ever written a story this long! [And the _Iron Man_ one I have going doesn't going, 'cause that's a bunch of drabbles.]  
>I have to be perfectly honest: There was a point in time where the thought crossed my mind to maybe scrap part of this story or to simply go back and start re-writing the whole thing. But then there was more of a *begins second-guessing story contemplates starting over**sees reviews**;-;* You guys are awesome, and I don't think you can even begin to understand how much you make my day.<p>

...let's go screw with Ellis' head some more.  
>I'm sorry this one's short and kinda pointless. ):<br>hinting at '_an enemy bigger than my apathy again._' :|

* * *

><p><em>There's a difference between solitude and loneliness.—Maggie Smith<em>

**Day 3; 1630 hours**

* * *

><p>Ellis had never hated anything.<p>

As a human being he'd gotten angry and annoyed, sure, but he couldn't remember ever really_ hating_ anything.

But he'd also never been abandoned before.

A bullet from his rifle brought his count to nine and painted the pavement a grotesque shade of red and purple, and watching the newly headless body linger suspended in the air for a moment before it crumpled left an empty feeling of victory. Sidestepping what remained of the male figure, the young Georgian shoved what ammunition he had left into the gun Coach had tossed to him only a few days before and tried not to think about it, the past few days feeling like eons. A grunt from a limp being just beyond earned a quick boot to the jaw, but upon impact it wasn't the former man's face that Ellis saw—it was Keith's.

There was some sick, unsettling feeling in his gut at the thought when its head snapped back, but he shoved it aside and told himself that it was just his annoyance getting the better of him. Ellis ground his teeth and felt nothing but betrayal.

Ever since he'd awoken alone earlier that day he'd had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and chest. As a result he'd spent the past few hours wandering aimlessly down a nameless street in a nameless town heading God-knew-where.

He'd never hated anything.

But now he hated Dave for being such a hard-ass at work, Paul for calling him and Keith both morons each time they came up with some asinine idea that almost killed them both. He hated Keith for lying to him, for not being there and protecting him when he'd needed it. He hated Coach for treating him like a child all the time, Rochelle for babying him, worrying too much and a few other things he didn't want to mention.

He hated Nick for being Nick, for being an ass. He hated Nick for almost everything, for making him think they could have been friends, for giving him the time that one night just to _listen_ and almost _care_ just to throw it all back in his face with everything that was happening now.

He hated Nick.

Ellis hated Nick.

Nick had called him stupid, annoying, hillbilly, hick, hayseed, Overalls, crazy, insane_—_

Ellis was _not_ insane.

Maybe he'd been delusional or hallucinating from the pain, but he was _not_ insane.

Keith had been real damn it all! Keith had been real and abandoned him and left him for dead.

But so had Dave and Paul...and Rochelle...and Coach...and Nick.

Ellis sneered, rifle rattling in his fist as something akin to the rage he hardly ever felt coursed through him.

How dare they! Who the _hell_ did they think they were? What the hell_—_how could they leave him like this? He'd been willing to sacrifice his _life _in order to save the lot of them and what did they do? What did they do?

_Nothing._

He'd been willing to give up everything just to keep them safe and alive and as a reward they had given up on him. Were they even looking for him? Did they care? Did they even notice he was gone? What, were they sitting back going _Oh it's just Ellis_ or _Oh hey, he'll show up eventually_. He had a half-mind that Nick was probably sitting back and rolling his eyes going _Eh, it's just Ellis._

Something behind him growled and he practically snarled.

_It's just Ellis, don't worry about him. It's just Ellis, who cares. It's just Ellis, he's probably dead. It's just Ellis what the hell is he doing it's just Ellis why should I give a shit it's just Ellis he annoys the shit out of me anyway besides it's just Ellis_—__

"You sonuva_bitch!_" He screamed, the rest of words garbled by the emotions he'd been bottling up for the past few weeks and then his stride faltered, blinded by the hot, angry tears he'd been warring with ever since his separation had begun. "I just...I..."

He drew in a heavy, furious breath.

_"I hate you!"_

_—hey El, where are ya?_ _El, answer the God damn phone, would'ya? El, we're waiting at the corner by The Vannah. I got yer ma 'n I'll see ya there. What the hell Ellis? ELLIS ANSWER ME._

Ellis!

Keith hadn't been there. Keith had never been there.

He was on knees and shaking in rage and fear.

_Ellis!_

It wasn't that Keith didn't care. Keith was probably...(oh God please don't let him be)...Keith was probably dead.

Ellis finally realized how alone he was.

EL_—_

Something growled and then the world came crashing down.

_—_IS.

* * *

><p>Rochelle stared at the staircase for a few minutes before she finally worked up the nerve to walk up it. She swallowed, pressing booted feet firmly and carefully upon his step, the sounds of Coach and Nick rifling through the kitchen masking the creaks beneath each footfall. For the life of her, the producer could not explain why going upstairs suddenly bothered her so much, but perhaps it was the fear of what she might come across that was eating at her so. As she neared the landing an ungodly stench assaulted her nostrils and she stumbled backwards, the back of her hand pressed firmly to her face.<p>

"Shit!" How they'd managed to miss the smell when they'd first entered the beaten looking home was beyond her. Perhaps her mind had been too focused on what Nick had filled her in on when she'd first woken up, practically waving the wallet beneath her nose before Rochelle had snatched it from his ringed hand to study it herself.

The odor of decay almost had her gagging and then suddenly she rushed through the first door she saw, afraid of what she would find.

_Ellis, oh God, Ellis please..._

If she found him...in this room...

She swallowed, almost sobbing at the thought. "Ellis?"

_(The young Southerner stumbled and cried out, crumpling to his knees and biting at his lip to hold back a scream. He ground his teeth at the realization that he'd lost both his pills and his wallet. He hissed and whimpered, his arm was burning.)_

"Ellis, are you in here?" In some ways, she was hoping she wasn't going to get an answer. It was almost preferable that he was beaten, defenseless, and alone rather than...

_(The floorboard squeaked and he yanked out his pistol, aiming at nothing save for stale air and releasing a silent scream.)_

...Rochelle didn't want to say it, let alone think it.

_(Ellis lurched forward, half-delirious with pain and exhaustion. There was a rotten smell in the room that he found himself following with only a small trace of reluctance, pulling his body forward as he crawled through the little amount of light streaming through the boarded window.)_

Nick frowned at the water bottle by his feet as he snatched it up off of the dirty linoleum, his brow puckering as he hinted the last few traces of moisture still lingering within it. Coach hummed at the amount of crumbs on the small, square table before him, having dug through the cupboards around the room and found little more than bleach and dust along with moldy bread that had clearly seen better days. He glanced up when he saw the conman's back bristle out of the corner of his eye.

"You find sumthin'_—_"

"He was here," The lanky man cut in, hand clenched tightly around the plastic bottle, causing a series of crackling noises to erupt from it. The response he received was a dull exhalation of air when they both realized that the boy couldn't have gotten too far. His gaze flickered to the heavyset man with eyes widened slightly in shock. "Ellis was _here_."

_(He dragged himself toward the dead body, not even thinking about what he was doing as his fingers came into contact with the first aid kit clutched securely in its deceased fingers. Ellis jerked backwards when its arm brushed against his knee, gagging at the sensation but forcing himself to continue.)_

The floorboard squeaked beneath Rochelle's foot as she carefully approached the dark corner of the room.

"Ellis?"

_(Its grip slacked only marginally as he clawed at it, tearing it open and yanking out as many bandages as he could. Hands full and nowhere near satisfied and scurried backwards, forcing as much space between himself and the body as he could as he slumped against the wall.)_

She could see a figure curled against the wall in the shadows and her shoulders sagged in something that was almost relief.

"Dammit, Ellis, you really had us all worried."

_(It was crude and hurried, but he somehow managed to wrap his wounds, gauze clenched tightly in his teeth as blood slowly stopped trickling from his nose. His forearm screamed at him as it came it contact with its bindings and he nearly bit through his own lip at the pain.)_

Rochelle stopped just short of it, somewhere in the back of her mind knowing that everything was terribly wrong by at the same time wanting to feel something that wasn't worry or fear.

She knelt to the floor.

_(Ellis was sent reeling, nauseous and hysterical and wanting the entire ordeal to be over.)_

Rochelle kept a hand pressed to her nose as she timidly reached for the shaded figure's.

_(Ellis finally managed to bandage himself as best he could and threw his head back against the wall as he sobbed.)_

"Sweetie, come on," Something was yelling at her not to touch it.

"Rochelle!" Nick's voice was heard but unanswered, something in him desperate to leave because he just knew that they were _so close_ to finding Ellis now.

She reached toward it anyway.

"Rochelle!"

_(He was unconscious before he hit the ground.)_

"Ellis, this isn't_—_" Its jaw slack, the body rolled to meet her as her hand grasped its shoulder.

Rochelle ran out of the room screaming.

* * *

><p>Ellis matched her cries with his own as the figure above him clawed at his chest.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Well, just to clear up confusion: Ellis did in fact bandage himself up and and he's a few hours worth of walking away from the other three, practically on the other side of town.

And Keith isn't real. c:


	11. Day 3 1645 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/**

**A/N: **Yeah, so Keith wasn't real...sorry to crush your hopes and dreams. xD  
>I've been considering changing 'Day 0' to 'Day 1,' but I haven't decided yet. eue<br>Sorry about the slightly belated update. I've been busy with life and college and this thing didn't want to be written. :|  
><em>MayaDarkling<em>—That terrible, horrible part is coming. It is.  
>it's called karma—<p>

Special guest appearance at the end of the chapter! Guess who guess who! ;D

* * *

><p><em>Loneliness is proof that your innate search for connection is intact.<em>—Martha Beck

**Day 3; 1710 hours **

* * *

><p>"Ow, you bitch! That freakin' <em>hurts!<em>" Ellis howled as he slammed his fist into the nose of the woman clamped onto this arm and her jaw loosened on his tattoo as fractures splintered across her weakened structure of her face. Milky eyes shut and she stumbled backwards, hands blindly flying to her visage with a cry, giving the mechanic a brief moment to assess the damage on his wounded bicep with a grimace. The acidic burn from the Spitter was bad enough to begin with, but the new bite mark was just asking for trouble.

He'd been bitten before…hadn't he?

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"He began cursing, wiping hand across the bits of torn flesh as if that would fix anything, completely unsure of what to do. She hadn't meant to bite him, in all honesty—it had just been a stroke of his rotten luck that his arm had gotten wedged between her teeth as he'd swung at her, though he had managed to cut off her screaming. The bitch had been the one to attack him in the first place.

Among other things, Ellis had proudly grown up with a never-hit-a-lady mindset, but right then given the circumstances he was sure his daddy wouldn't mind.

His back still hurt from being tackled, having had the wind knocked out of him after she'd thrown herself at his chest. Admittedly, he thought it strange that she'd done such, not being a Hunter and all, but he was still perturbed by the fact that she'd bitten him to think too much of it. A horrible screeching sound erupted from her throat, dark, sticky blood dribbling from her ruined nose as pupil-less eyes tried to hunt the Georgian down.

Ellis was never sure why he hadn't simply shot her down—instead he simply drew his pistol back and snagged his rifle from the pavement at his feet just as she came flailing toward him.

She paused for a split second as she staggered, and it was during that hesitation that he swung his weapon at her head as hard as he could. There was no hoot or holler when the dead body hit the ground with a disgruntled, wet squeal, just a sense of revulsion at what he'd done with blood splattered across both their shirtfronts and the wound on his arm.

He was immune, right? He had to be. Oh god, how did this happen? He'd been bitten before, right? Y-Yeah, totally. He had to have been—how else would he have gotten this far? Totally immune. Of course. Completely, one-hundred percent immune. Never mind that at that moment he couldn't exactly remember having been bitten by one of the Infected (he was pretty sure he had, damn it all) and that the bite sort of stung. Shit—he had to be immune. He'd been covered in zombie guts and blood and he'd even accidentally swallowed Boomer Bile that one time. If that wasn't immunity, Ellis didn't know what was.

The boy hardly resisted the urge to tell the dead female _"Another one bites the dust!"_ in order to mask his unease because that just would have been corny and terrible and ironic and he was just uncertain and afraid.

Before he knew it he was on his knees, asphalt digging into them and his hand wrapped around the tattoo. Her bite had just barely broken the skin, but bits of blood had bubbled through the small markings from her teeth.

"Well ain't this just peachy,"

He made it a point to ignore the footsteps he could feel approaching him, too caught up in the fear of infection to really do much else. They stopped just off to the side and the hick swallowed, tearing the loose bandage away from his shoulder to loop it around his bicep as best he could. The crude attempt at addressing the bite would have to do for now, and the most he could do was hope that he was immune.

"Go away, Keith."

Keeping his gaze level with the dirt staining one of the knees of his coveralls he reached timidly for his rifle as worn boots shuffled closer to him. Ellis refused to look at the figment of his imagination for the time being, working to convince himself that he wasn't going insane and that what had happened earlier was simply the child of pain and exhaustion. His previous nightmare had just been a prelude to it all. He could feel his friend reach for him and the boy flinched away from his touch.

"Yer not real!"

The only sound on the empty street was that of his ragged breathing as his thoughts warred with one another. On one hand his brain was telling him that Keith being there was a _good_ thing, since it meant that he wasn't alone and that Keith was alive, but on the other it was telling him that Keith being there meant he was going mad.

"Yer not...yer not..." The younger Savannahite ducked his chin into chest, forcing himself to stand and maintaining his averted gaze. It was a bit odd that his emotions were so out of whack—one minute he wanted nothing to do with Keith or any of these other people, but then the next he was practically craving human contact. Being alone was something he'd never liked as a child, and even as an adult he still found himself repeatedly checking over his shoulder just to see if someone was with him. Here his mind was offering him someone to talk to and he was afraid of accepting its gift.

"Says who?" The stance beside him wavered and his eyes darted to it for a split second for fear of it vanishing.

If he was going to get infected, the last thing he wanted was to be on his own when it happened.

"Me," Ellis whispered, trying so desperately hard to look away from the figure standing before him. The brow furrowed, and he struggled to convince himself that he was simply playing tricks on himself.

The older man said nothing, let his brow furrow, looked guilty and then ducked his head down to his feet.

The mechanic gnawed at his lip for lack of not knowing what else to do and just stared down the uneasy memory image of his friend, too tired of being angry to lash out at him further.

"Yeah," Keith murmured, reaching up to scratch at one of the scars from those mower blades oh so long ago before turning those thoughtful, hazel irises back to Ellis.

Checking the ammunition left in his gun did little for his morale, seeing as the nine remaining bullets paired with the last two clips for his pistol would be fairly useless against any horde he managed to run into.

God forbid he meet up with a Tank. Meeting a grisly death by a Hunter or Smoker would have been preferable. In retrospect, he truly couldn't remember how he'd gotten separated from the other three, though one of the pink monstrosities had clearly had a hand in it—literally—if the bruises he'd been ignoring for the better part of the last few days were any indication.

He needed to find the others, and soon.

Neither man addressed the other as Ellis reached up and tugged at the remaining gauze on his shoulder, finding that it had done little more than irritate his neck before letting it fall to the ground. Turning away from Keith he began his trek down the road and toward what he could only pray was salvation.

Ellis never really knew why he'd suddenly stopped walking and called over his shoulder,

"...But I guess I don't mind having you here."

Keith followed slowly, and it took a while before the younger man launched into the tale of how he'd met the others.

* * *

><p>Rochelle had yet to say anything after they'd vacated the home Ellis had clearly had his way with, and Nick wasn't sure if that was bothering him or not. Coach hadn't said much to him either after the woman had torn down the stairs practically hyperventilating, running a gloved hand down his face and muttering something or other to himself. The still damp water bottle had been more head-way than they'd had since the young man's wallet that the gambler held securely in his fist, so at least they knew he was hydrated.<p>

The first aid kit that had been torn to shreds had all but destroyed any sense of hope they had for him, now knowing full well that Ellis was clearly injured and they didn't know to what extent. The fresh blood stains mixing with the old along the upstairs floorboards did little to put them at ease.

Nick flipped Ellis' wallet shut and sighed as Coach murmured his prayer.

Gambling and poker did not make for a praying man, but he found himself slowly following the words anyway. A Magnum in one hand and false promise in the other he stood and listened to the words of the man he'd recently been butting heads with less and less, letting them take over and carry him down this so-called path of righteousness.

The prayer trailed off, unfinished, as the trio rounded a corner and a sharp intake of breath was the only sound Rochelle made.

Nick felt something in him freeze at the sight before him, mentally cursing his lack of a better weapon as his grip tightened on his gun at the apparent zombie block party. Little tendrils of ice took up residence along his spine as one figure in the thickest part of the crowd limped by, donned in an off-color tan shirt that looked a bit too much like—

"Shit, what the hell you doin'!" Coach hissed at him, snapping his attention away from the zombie that he'd initially almost mistaken for Ellis to find both of his companions crouched behind one of the few vehicles dotting the broken landscape. The heavy man reached up and gave his once white sleeve a firm tug, sending him scrambled to the ground and kneeling beside the woman that had remained mute as a result of their search having proven fruitless thus far.

Rochelle pressed her back against the car as Nick did the same, the former checking the rounds in her own gun and failing to look too impressed. The conman slid another clip into his own and shot the other man a look that earned a frown. It was clear that the producer was beyond pissed and what better way than to vent that frustration than on a bunch of mindless zombies?

She was about to stand and open fire clearly without thinking things through when the man in the suit gave her arm a quick jerk and low, keening moan sounded from somewhere in the crowd they were hiding from.

"Ro..."

Nick's back stiffened just as Rochelle's eyes widened, a hand flying to cover her mouth. The former footballer low out a low curse.

"Ro..."

"Oh god," the woman whispered through her fingers as she rose her other hand to her face. "Oh god, oh god..."

The desperate, pleading voice continued, and she she squeezed her eyes shut, tears forming at the visual of Ellis calling out and limping toward her, eyes pupil-less and empty as the Infection ravaged his body and mind. She could see bites all over his body, blood clinging to him as gory appendages reached out for her in search of solace while he reeked of decay and despair.

Nick braced himself against the car and hooked his arm around the small woman to drag her toward him, ringed fingers covering her own in order to further muffle her growing sobs as Coach cocked his shotgun. They gave one another a quick nod, both praying to their own deities that whoever was making that god awful sound _not_ be Ellis as one prepared to blow its brains out.

"Nii, nii..."

The lot of them froze at the sound of a second, more pitiful sounding voice.

"Nii..."

The younger man's arms tightened around Rochelle and he bit as his frown as she choked behind three different palms, still trying so desperately hard to believe that it wasn't Ellis that they were about to further damn.

He released the lone woman in time for her to lurch forward and dry heave.

Zombie-Ellis stumbled closer to where they sat hidden, glancing around listlessly with its quiet moaning that was screwing with all of their heads.

"Do it," Nick's voice was gritted and forced, somewhere in the back of his mind trembling as he fought with his own nausea. "Just do it."

Coach stood and leveled his shotgun with its chest, staining the tan with red.

* * *

><p>"Man, I don't think I'm ever gonna find th' others," Ellis murmured to himself a few odd hours later, the made-up sound of Keith's footfalls serving as a lullaby in itself, the younger man's boots trailing against the ground, shiver shooting down his back as his imaginary friend regarded him carefully.<p>

"Don' say that," The other man muttered, running a head through his hair to muse the unruly, ginger-tinted locks.

The only response _he_ received with the sound of the safety of a rifle being toyed with. The boy sighed at the familiar sight of a red door just down the block, looking forward to the refuge but at the same time feeling guilty for the way he was acting toward his comrade.

An apology was muttered a few minutes, but neither man made eye contact with the other.

In some ways, the silence was almost worse than the solitude, and Ellis didn't overly approve of either.

"Look, Keith I—" He started, lowering his arms and making to turn to his friend when a grunt cut him off. A low rumble followed it, resounding down the darkened street and his footsteps picked up, spinning around and hurriedly walking backwards, eyes roving and gun trained on something he could only hear behind him. Keith frowned in obvious confusion, peering around and trying to figure out just what his young friend was searching for.

"Ellis, the hell're ya so worked up 'bout?"

Said gave a quick hiss to shut his friend up, gaze flickering around the cars and debris in the street as he attempted to locate the source of the disconcerting sounds and inching all that much closer to the door of the safe house, hoping that it was either quite a ways down the block or either just his mind screwing with him further.

There was a bull-like snort and then he could finally make out the outline.

"El, what—"

"_Charger!_"


	12. Day 4 0010 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/**

**A/N:** fft. Chargers. I woulda updated the other night, except I was too busy watching my friend play the newest Resident Evil game. ...She died quite a bit. And then we were playing Castle Crashers and trying to get ALL the achievements... xD All the same, I'm still a bit ashamed that it's been nearly a month since I last updated this.  
>can'tbelievepeoplearereadingthis. lmao  
>Ikindahatethisstory.<br>Kinda sorta.  
>You'll see. This chapter especially.<br>/got no sleep last night. That obvious? Too busy going to see _The Hunger Games_ at midnight. hell yeah. \o/

Still debating getting rid of the 'Day x' thing. Thoughts?

_IKillZombiesForFun—_Karma. Charger.  
>yeah.<p>

* * *

><p><em>I believe a lot of disease comes from anxiety, loneliness. —<em>Tom Cochrane

**Day 4; 0010 hours**

* * *

><p>"Oh god damn—Big Arm!" Ellis was shouting, practically tripping over himself in his haste to make it to that desperately sought after red door in record time.<p>

He was stumbling in the dark and the Charger grunted, taking aim while it flexed its grotesque and over-developed arm.

Keith was shouting something that the younger couldn't comprehend over the blood pounding in his ears. The rifle swung side-to-side as he ran, having half a mind to torn and fire at the mutated mass behind him, vein bulging in its right arm as it leaned forward and snorted. Savannah's last standing mechanic could feel the distance between him and safe room slowly closing, and he struggled to stifle the slight relief that tried to pool in his gut.

Very briefly he recalled a time only moments before his separation that had involved a Charger, a car door, bruised ribs, and that angered, scathing look in Nick's eyes.

Hurrying and bounding over debris and what he could only assume were discarded bodies and appendages, the boy gulped and cursed. Subconsciously, he could already feel the meaty fingers wrap around his torso, clutching and squeezing as it prepared to heave him into the air before it would slam him in the hard ground. All he had to do was keeping running and he was all clear; all he had to do was—

Ellis' foot discovered a pothole just as the Charger heaved a battle cry and began its run.

Quite frankly he was just surprised he hadn't knocked a few teeth out upon impact. Cursing, the mechanic attempted to heave himself back into an upright position as he felt mutilated feet pound in the street just barely down the block.

The safe room door was so _close._

It snorted, and the boy gritted his teeth while Keith continued to yammer in the background.

Blood thundering in his ears, Ellis scrambled onto his knees and sucked in a quick breath. He yelped as his leg scraped against the remnants of a concrete barrier, tearing at the scabs that had just formed from the gashes from that one Witch Nick had just _had _to piss off back before his sanity had begun to crumble around him. His equilibrium was thrown off-kilter at the roar of gibberish that was steadfastly approaching.

"Aw, shit!"

He could almost feel it breathing down his neck; feel it pounding whatever remained of his broken life out of him.

He didn't particularly like the feeling.

Any pain from his arms or other body parts was bluntly ignored when Ellis planted his palms firmly against the cracked ground and practically threw himself upward. Breaking into a full-on sprint as best he could, the young man gasped at the sensation of something brushing against his back; he paled and felt nauseous, ducking just in time for a large fist to sail over his head.

The near-miss disoriented him and succeeded in knocking his cap off and he stumbled, kicking it away.

The Charger bellowed in something akin to rage, raising his arm again in preparation to strike rather than grab.

Breath left Ellis' lungs in a sharp exhale as he dropped his gun and was sent tumbling through the air, slamming into a worn building facade and then landing in a series of scraggly bushes planted in a formerly aesthetically appealing array along the side of the street in a fairly ungraceful manner.

Dry branches clawed and snapped against his face as the boy collided with them and rolled onto his back with a low groan, squeezing his eyes shut. The Georgian adopted the abandoned foliage as cover and resisted the urge to cry out, the wind having been knocked out of him. Instead he replaced it with prayer that the Charger wouldn't find him after he heard it collide with a nearby brick facade.

Aw hell_—Keith!_

Cursing inwardly, he chanced the risk of cracking one eye open in search of his best friend, just about considering calling out for him and then struggled with reminding himself that the elder delinquent's presence wasn't really there.

As long as he made no sudden movements or suddenly materialized into an actual human being, Keith ought to have been safe from the wrath of the disgruntled Charger snorting up a storm. The same didn't quite go for Ellis.

Overalls One lay prone in the bushes with bated breath while Overalls Two let loose an angry stream of gibberish when it found its newest victim missing.

Ellis watched the Charger stomp around, kicking around dust and bricks in its search and a whimper caught in his throat when he glanced up just in time to watch it slowly pass by. Another few inches to the side and its massive foot could have snapped his wrist in half.

He cursed under his breath and it snorted again.

_Shit, shit, shit, go away._

Right at that moment Ellis couldn't care less about Keith. Imaginary Keith was a moron and a jackass and probably going to get him killed. Real Keith wouldn't have let it get this far. Real Keith would have cared and not just...watched.

A grunted sound that may very well have once been words dribbled out of the misshapen mouth above him, right arm swinging idly as its body jerked around and suddenly the mechanic_—_

_—gasped as the zombie slammed into the side of the SUV, bringing the driver's side door much too close to him for his liking. Disoriented, he had just enough time to gasped before a pair of hands hooked around his shoulders and yanked him backwards, whacking the back of his head against the headrest rather than his forehead against the steering wheel. He groaned at the ache in his side, not sure if he was suffering from vertigo or whiplash but knowing full well that everything just hurt._

_That pain did not match the amount he felt when he glanced up into a pair of cool green eyes with an angry, scathing look._

_He began to shrink in on himself at the glare until he was further jostled around the front seat, window threatening to give way beneath the snorts and punches from the Charger._

_Another set of hands—larger, these ones—reached for him, the other two having already piled out of the car with their weapons at the ready as they begin to open fire. He paused in his efforts to get the hell out of the SUV to somehow manage to bash the Infected being throwing itself against the car in attempts to get at what it had deemed its closest victim._

_It stumbled backwards and he hopped out after it while the eldest followed the example of the woman and man firing off their rounds. In a bit of quick thinking the boy grabbed for his gun but rather than point and shoot he turned and swung it at the creature before him, aiming at the point when its neck had once existed before being swallowed into its chest and shoulders. The physical blow was just about as powerful as the mental, unable to get away from the imaged of those eyes glaring at him in a way that offered nothing more than blame and annoyance._

_The rather tame size of the horde did nothing to soothe him, warring with the guilt that was bringing another threat upon his friends' lives and feeling like that screw-up that one drunk uncle had called him in what felt like another life._

_His rifle succeeded in killing the laughing little fool gearing for the woman but failed in calming him in any way. She offered him some form of thanks that he didn't exactly catch, doing so having become routine and also too focused on to the Infected running at him with gurgling yowls. The all too familiar growling of one of the hooded figures was cut off with a quick yip after the Southerner lowered his gun, one of its bullets planted in its skull only a few yards away from the man it had been edging closer to._

_He was offered little appreciation for his actions, but rather a look he wasn't immediately sure how to interpret._

_Rightfully annoyed, the young man was about to make and quip and say something with another roar filled their ears, replacing the adrenaline from combat that had been coursing through their veins with dread and they all let loose a chorus of _Reloading!

_But then he had spun around and then the Tank that had followed the—_

_—_Charger left him alone after nearly half an hour of aimless wandering, its mental capacity having seemingly forgotten about him after its half-assed search had proven fruitless, or simply because it believed the boy to have died upon impact and therefore left it the victor with no one to gloat to.

The Southerner didn't move for a while after that.

Ellis wasn't entirely sure how he'd someone managed to almost doze off lying out in the open like he was, and he couldn't exactly say that it had done anything to make him feel better. If anything, he was now swamped with guilt and revulsion, part of him wanting to find the others to make up for his failures and work his way back into their good graces, but the other wanted to simply say good riddance and high-tail it out of there, convinced that they had done nothing to aid him in any way, shape, or form.

It took a great deal of convincing himself that he was alone before he finally worked up the nerve to shift the limbs that had been falling asleep and get up.

He actually army crawled through some of the bushes, smirking to himself for the first time in a while as he did so.

"We have to stop meeting like this," the Georgian muttered as he snatched his rifle, irritated that he was developing a habit of dropping it so often.

Only slowly, painstakingly slowly, did he get to his feet and flicked the safety on his gun off.

Ellis would have grinned at the satisfaction that accompanied the knowledge that he was still alive and relatively safe for the time being had it not been for the buzz kill that popped its head out of the safe room.

"Ya ain't infected, are ya?"

It wasn't that he'd forgotten about the bite mark on his upper arm, but rather that he'd had more important things to worry about the time. Being threatened with a would-have-been eminent death took priority over dying a slow one for the time being. That all aside, the younger mechanic found himself warily glancing at his bicep and biting back a scowl.

"Dunno. Are you?" he sneered and Keith grimaced.

"Get'cher ass inside 'fore ya git it handed ta ya."

Ellis made it a point to offer his friend a rather rude hand gesture.

* * *

><p>"But there was this guy I knew; he raced dirt tracks, not stock cars, but open wheel cars, y'know? 'N he was racin' once, 'n a goat—"<p>

_Ellis? Is now the best time?_

"A-hem," he paused to clear his throat, thumping his fist to his sternum. "Guh, sorry 'bout that. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the goat! Okay there was this goat that sumhow managed ta make it onta the tracks in th' middle uh th' race 'n nobody knew _how_ it did 'n shit, but it was still funny as hell 'cause the minute he goes 'round this one turn—"

_Ellis!_

"Ah, whoops. Damn it." he muttered, stooping down to grab the rounds he'd knocked to the floor as he cleaned his rifle. Keith could be sitting quietly in the corner of the room leaning against the wall and listening to the story he was telling himself for all he knew or cared. "Well, okay, I guess it really ain't that funny dependin' on how yer lookin' at it, but personally _I_ thought it was friggin' hilarious."

The young man had to pause as he laughed to himself and the memory, laughter bouncing around the empty room until he forced himself to tone it down in volume least he acquired some unwelcome company.

"But _damn! _He hit the goat! He _hit_ the goat! Hell, I dun think he meant to, but the damn thing went _flyin'!_ Ho-ly shit ya shoulda seen it! The goat lived I think, but th' look on the guy's face when they stopped the race 'cause of the goat was just_—_damn!"

Ellis' humor met a quick end when he pressed a hand to his head while he snickered, fingers poking into his hair before he suddenly grew still and confused.

"...Where's my hat?"

Frowning he quickly glanced around himself, thinking that maybe he'd managed to drop it as he'd been taking care of his rifle or that it had magically fallen off while he'd put up a makeshift barricade by the red entrance he'd been aiming for before the Charge had decided to pop up for a quick meet-and-greet. "Aw, come _on._" The Savannahite hardly resisted the urge to smack himself in the forehead as realization set in.

Making his way to the far wall and peeking between the boards otherwise hindering his use of the window rewarded him with a glance at his hat lying abandoned in the road in the exceedingly low light levels.

"Well ain't that a load'uh shit," he grumbled, making a move toward the furniture piled up beside the door when a series of inhumane noises graced his eardrums. Hands poised and ready to grab a side of the table he'd dragged from the dining room of what remained of the apartment he was in Ellis froze and then stepped back to the window.

Admittedly, he wasn't exactly in the best condition to run outside with metaphorical guns blazing but still. His _hat._

It was with a great deal of shame and regret that the man finally got himself to turn away from the outside world, gnawing at his lip and feeling exposed without the familiar presence of his cap. It was rather unsettling that initially he hadn't even noticed its absence to begin with.

Without his hat placed securely on his head Ellis looked so much younger that his years (already young to begin with, of course) and now that he was hyper-aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing it and therefore kept running his hands through his hair he would have almost looked completely out of place in the zombie apocalypse had it not been for the bandages and bloodstains.

"I can always get it tomorrow...er sumthin'," he yawned.

Stumbling over his boots he set to exploring the rest of the safe house and its connecting doorways, briefly poking his head into rooms after pressing an ear to the door for a few solid seconds in order to be sure they could in fact be considered 'safe.' The stairway brought him to another floor and a door that brought him to what he quickly assumed to be the next apartment from what he'd seen so far.

He tried not to limp as he carried down one of the upper corridors, passing over a threshold and trying to assure himself that there was nothing in this building that he couldn't handle.

As he shuffled above them the floorboards beneath him proclaiming their age and eventually his curiosity got the best of him, wanting to actually fully enter a room and snoop around rather than peeking in and giving everything a quick once over. He needed something to do, take up hi time and mind off of things. The mechanic paused and listened, glancing at the one door he was walking towards that was already cracked open ajar and careful plucked his pistol from his hip.

The door creaked as he nudged it open, granting him entry into a world he couldn't exactly see fully in the dark.

"What the_—_" he grumbled, slipping momentarily until he caught himself, one hand braced against the wall and the other dropping his gun. He groaned, plucking his palm away from the plaster with a rather wet sound, grimacing at the noise and the sensation. "Aw, shit."

Crouching down Ellis muttered to himself, hands blinding reaching out and groping for his gun, unable to see as much as he would like to and keeping his ears trained for any other visitors. Something soft brushed against the back of his knuckles and he jerked away as if he'd been burned before timidly reached toward it again, squinting.

Whatever it was felt almost furry, hairs slipping between his fingers as he wrapped his hand around it, bringing it closer to him in order to study it properly in the little strands of moonlight streaming through the open doorway behind him.

"O-oh God,"

Ellis balked, the teddy bear clutched tightly in his hand, its fur on one side matted down in a dark stain like a terrible eye patch and he all but threw it back to the floor, trembling and unable to comprehend something he so desperately didn't want to believe.

"Oh please, no..."

Right then he was just so unnerved that he wanted to vomit right then and there. The young man glanced up at the bed on the far side of the room and struggled with the bile and tears that rose. His breath was broken and a hand was pressed to his mouth as the slight odor finally struck him and he caught side of the small figure curled in on itself.

"No, no, God no..."

Ellis stumbled backwards out of the room, tripping over children's' toys and suddenly all too aware of the monsters of this reality.

He collapsed in the hallway, burying his face in his bloody hands and sobbed not for himself, but for the rest of the world as well.


	13. Day 4 0504 hours

**/Separation Anxiety/**

**A/N: **Uh yeah, so. Anybody got any ideas or suggestions, go ahead and hit me with them. That doesn't go to say that they'll all be used and stuff, but still, feel free!  
>Same goes for <em>Southern Comfort<em>. While I have some ideas that I want to use and all, but I need fillers and things to add in between now and the future. xD  
>So...yes. Please do share any ideassuggestions? ;-;

As always, I appreciate the support. :)

* * *

><p><em>We are all so much together, but we are all dying of loneliness.<em>—Albert Schweitzer

**Day 4; 0504 hours**

* * *

><p>It was raining.<p>

To say Nick was restless was an understatement. Nick was just about ready to start beating down the door and tearing apart the walls if it meant that he didn't have to just _sit_ there any longer. The man was also enraged than simply his usual pissed self, though he could not exactly determine why. Perhaps it was because they had so far failed in finding their fourth member and bringing The Three Musketeers back to The Four Delinquents, or perhaps it was because he was a moody man by nature and the floor was hard and made his ass hurt. That, and their hurried vacation to New Orleans was being delayed more and more day by day due to their unplanned search and rescue operation, and part of him was just glad that as far as he knew they were heading West.

Jesus, he needed a smoke. Or a drink. Or something to shoot.

All he could do right then, however, was scratch at the layer of stubble growing along his jaw and unconsciously wished he had a pair of nail clippers as the jagged edges of his own scratched against his skin—all while Rochelle gave him a fleeting glance before turning away. She was quietly kneeling beside the box they'd found in one of the cupboards of the apartment they'd chosen to hunker down in for the night, finding it clearly packed in haste with the rather random array that had been shoved inside it.

A few heartbeats worth of silence passed between them before the male realized that there was a box of spaghetti noodles being waved beneath his nose, and he half-heartedly batted away the strands of wheat when she asked if he was hungry. She gave him a blank stare and nod, putting the box back into the other and idly pawing through it without much conscious thought.

Nick observed silently as she let out a breathless sigh and shift her gaze to the door beside him, it supposedly being the only thing protecting them from the outside world. He cast it a sidelong glance from where he sat, but gave it little more appreciation than that. All the same, his growing unease matched the woman's, their leader having ventured out into the rain with a bucket and a shotgun tucked under his arm with the instructions to give him a holler if he wasn't back in twenty minutes.

That had been fourteen minutes ago.

In all honesty Nick thought it was stupid, but the larger man had apparently had the brilliant idea to go outside and try to collect some clean rain water with the bucket he'd managed to procure from beneath the kitchen sink. Maybe he didn't like the useless feeling either.

Or maybe he just didn't want to be stuck in the same room as Nick anymore.

He couldn't blame him, really.

Whatever the reason, that didn't make him appreciate the pitying glances from Rochelle at all while she kept looking at the arm he had wrapped around his torso.

The conman frowned and shifted around, grunting slightly at the exertion and wondering just how many bruises dotted his rib cage at the moment. Upon turning that last street corner he'd been greeted firsthand by an angry snort and an unobstructed view of the disfigured snout of a Charger.

He hadn't even had the chance to yell when it then proceeded to carry him a few more yards and thus begin slamming his body into concrete.

The popping noises behind it had alerted the zombie with a big ass arm of the others' presence, Coach leveling his shotgun with the base of its spine and Rochelle taking aim at the fleshy mass wrapped around Nick's body.

Dead weight was one thing, but being sat on by a dead Charger was something else entirely. Quite frankly, he was just glad it hadn't managed to completely snap one of his ribs and punctured his lungs. At least he was still alive.

(Could the same be said for Ellis? He didn't like to dwell on the thought.)

While part of him still didn't quite see the point in it, the gambler was partly appreciative of the fact that Coach had selflessly (and he hated selfless people, and for that he blamed the kid) ventured to the other side of the door in order to collect rainwater. It wasn't the most sophisticated method to get clean, but it would get them clean nonetheless, despite how lukewarm it would presumably be.

He'd never looked forward to washing his hands more than he was right now, and being an overly hygienic guy, that was saying something.

He was starting to lose feeling in his tailbone.

Trying to hoist himself his feet using the wall behind him as leverage earned him the attention of the sole other sentient being in the room, and Nick was rather surprised when he felt nimble fingers brace against his shoulders and he opened his eyes to meet Rochelle's as she gave a light shove downward.

"Nick, just stay still," she murmured, the man averting his gaze.

"I can't," he muttered as he did just that, keeping his eyes from hers and sliding back down to the floor. Her hands remained, lingering on his person even after he'd sat down before she took them away and knelt.

The woman moved to sit beside him and Nick shifted as much as he could to let her join him in the breath-taking study of wherever the hell they were. Legs sprawled in front of him, the man hissed at the pain in his back as his spine cracked. At least he wasn't dying or a bloody mess but damn if his body didn't just _hurt_.

Getting pummeled by a Charger hurt like a bitch—being on the receiving end one of the few things Nick had in common with Ellis.

"Jesus Christ," the conman hissed, green eyes shut while he cautiously rubbed at one of the more tender spots on his side. "God damn hillbilly, shit-for-brains, asshole son of a bitch."

He glanced down when he felt a hand carefully wrapped around his forearm; Rochelle kept her gaze downcast and voice soft as she spoke,

"Yeah, I miss him too."

Nick scowled and leaned his head back, letting the rain pound against the rooftop.

* * *

><p>Huddled under the small overhang, Coach kept a steady eye on his darkened surroundings, hand clenching around his shotgun at each sound and then promptly cursing every one of them. In all honesty going outside to gather rainwater had been an excuse more so than anything, the idea of sticking around in the same room as a disgruntled Nick not overly appealing at the time being. Granted, Nick had more or less been an arrogant asshole as long as the two men had known one another, but as of late something had been off about the man and Coach was all too aware that he was dangerously close to snapping.<p>

Maybe they all were.

With a heavy sigh, the man raised a hand to the roll of fat at the back of his shaved neck, swatting away sweat and tiny little bugs that had attempted to gather there. The southern United States may have been known for having a warmer climate than the rest of the country, sure, but that failed to make him feel any better when it came to the sticky humidity of the night air. The rain didn't help matters much, warm and tepid rather than cooling as it thudded around him.

Dismally, he watched it splatter and pool in large puddles in the broken expanse of the street, almost flowing one way before it decided that it wasn't the direction it wanted to go in and backtracking on itself.

Coach dabbed at his neck again, dragging his gloved hand to its side before letting it fall to his lap as his thoughts trailed from the rain and then to their failing search back to the rain and questioned whatever season it was as the heat enveloped him.

Funny, he'd never really questioned time before—maybe he'd wanted to curse it once he realized he'd grown middle-aged a few years back, but he'd never given it too much thought when it came to seasons either.

It was fall, wasn't it? Autumn? What month was it—September? October? Maybe the tail end of the latter, and they were all caught up in some form of an extremely deranged Halloween celebration.

Ellis liked Halloween. Coach only knew that because suddenly he could remember the halls of the high school all those years ago, paper streams dangling in the air and the happy looking teenager bopping through the halls as he and the rest of the student body waited for the final bell that sent them home for the weekend and to whatever parties or plastic Jack-o-lanterns full of treats that they'd been waiting for since that same time last year. He could see himself standing in that hallway, the faces of the other children blurred save for the one boy he couldn't seem to look away from.

Coach had never been the fastest runner in the world, but for the life of him he couldn't get to the kid fast enough.

A hand shot out—his, he was sure— to grab the young man's shoulder, whirling him around and sending the binder he'd been leafing through tumbling to the ground, locker slamming shut behind him. The crowd around them abruptly dispersed into vapor and the boy's eyes widened, making to start apologizing before his young features were marred with confusion. He frowned at the words Coach was saying but couldn't hear, staring up at the man incredulously as the elder spoke of warnings, fleeting little apologies that he didn't understand.

The ex-footballer gave his shoulder a good shake, shifting the hat-less tuft of curls and causing the sixteen-year-old's mouth to form a startled 'o' as he started to pull away. Ellis shot a wary glance to a classroom just down the hall, not wanting to be rude but more than just a _little_ unsettled by the behavior of his Health teacher. He respectfully offered a quick excuse about having to go off to Spanish class, the large hand tightening on his joint and he winced for fear of being reprimanded.

Coach started screaming at him—shouting something unintelligible to himself but serving as warning to the young man before him. He shouted about taking care of himself, watching his back or something or other but he finally got back to apologizing, the roar in his ears dying down into the rumble of his own voice as it cracked.

"Ellis..." he murmured, fist shaking as it grasped t-shirt material. "Ellis, shit, boy, 'm sorry..."

The teenager stopped struggling and quirked his brow, suddenly shifting his gaze to meet that of the coach's.

He smirked.

The large man stilled at the look, watching the smirk grown into a grin that was nothing like the boy he knew. Unnerved, he withdrew his hand, and his palm came away red. Distantly, Ellis glanced down at himself, unfazed by the heavy streaks of crimson and torn shreds that had made up the green Power Rangers shirt that matched Keith's for the day, giving an unattached shrug to his appearance before he looked at Coach again.

"Naw, man, ain't no use apologizin' t'a dead man."

Coach snorted awake, foot jerking out and he nearly kicked the bucket as his bearing came rushing back to him. Rain, puddles, a dead zombie, forgotten buildings, humid air, and a—

—holy shit.

The only way he could describe the feeling was like to having a Boomer sit on his chest, knocking the wind out of him and leaving his heart to thud in its cavity. He stood slowly, keeping his eyes on the street and his hand on his shotgun as he slowly stood and stepped into the downpour. His footsteps felt slow and sluggish, moving forward until they came to a rest and he bent forward.

"Holy shit..." he murmured. "Aw, shit, shit, shit."

He tried desperately to ignore the bloodstain on the bill of the cap.

* * *

><p>Nick just about had a heart attack when the door flew open, a rain-soaked Coach tromping inside with an equally soaked bucket and heavy heart. The water sloshed around violently as it set on the floor before he quietly turned shut the door behind him, letting it click and partly drown out the outside sounds.<p>

Despite the fact that it frickin' _hurt_ the gambler was on his feet in a matter of seconds, stance wavering as he stood and took in the tired, weary look of their leader. Where Coach was rational and attempted to lift their spirits (not to the extent that Ellis did), he was suddenly quiet and reserved, a mournful expression spreading across his face before he hid it with his hand, fingers rubbing at his temples.

He was about to damn well tear into him when a sharp inhale from behind him signaled that Rochelle had stood as well, and the conman turned to ask her what her problem was when he found himself irritably following her gaze.

There was a thick moment of silence between them all, Coach holding out Ellis' hat like a deranged peace offering.

Rochelle spoke first, uttering something along the lines of the boy having to be nearby and that he honestly couldn't be too far away now, and all Nick could do was stare blankly, blinking repeatedly as if doing so would bring everything into focus.

It was then that a wave of pure, unadulterated rage washed over him, the more animalistic side of him wanting to tear into the both of them, call them all of these horrible words if only for a means of venting before he went out and shot dead everything damn thing he saw.

After a few solid heartbeats the fury was replaced with apathy, the lack of feeling washing over him and leaving him in indifference. Beautiful, blissful indifference.

Coach noticed this, but he failed to say anything.

The low rumble of thunder drowned out any coherent thoughts and the sound of shuffling from the floor above them.

Coolly and wordlessly did Nick take the cap from the larger hand, holding it before him and regarding it carefully as if it was some supposedly awe-inspiring relic found in some tomb during an archeological dig before it turned to ash in their hands.

When he finally looked back up, his gaze was steely and unwavering; even Rochelle had appeared to sober up, the tears she had cried the past few days having dried into a mixture between anger and the brutal acceptance that in the back of her mind she'd been trying not to acknowledge.

The gambler's hand formed a fist around the mesh of the cap, clenching it to him and refusing to offer the other two any of the words of hope he didn't have. As much as he didn't want to believe that Ellis was dead...

Something passed between the three, a silent agreement of sorts.

Nick looked away, shoving what he could of the hat into his pocket, the boy's wallet already taking up residence in his other one. He said nothing more.

It was brief and he tried to hide it, but the dismal look of sorrow in his eyes was hard to miss.


End file.
